


There's Something Fishy About Professor Kirkland

by Coconut_Gelato



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Crossover, Gen, Hetalia Crossover, Pottertalia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-07-08 15:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19872139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coconut_Gelato/pseuds/Coconut_Gelato
Summary: The wizened Headmaster steepled his fingers together and pierced him with an icy blue gaze. "Why don't we talk about your strengths, weaknesses and why you think you're suitable for the job? Perhaps we may find just as suitable an arrangement for you.""...right. So fer the most part Ah specialize in Herbology and Potions, but I am fairly knowledgeable in Defense in the Dark Arts." Scotland hummed. "I'm actually a bit of a jack of all trades, but my Magical History and Arithmancy is lacking."It wasn't really, but all the details were tedious as fuck to remember, what more to teach? He'd be flinging himself off the tower alongside the rest of his class.A story of how a man who came to Hogwarts with selfish goals and left a true teacher- nay, a true professor.





	1. Prologue: The Man in the Lighthouse

> ** Prologue: The Man in the Lighthouse **

"Tom. Tom! Get your little butt over 'ere."

A bustling, heavy woman with ruddy cheeks heaved an entire pie off the windowsill from where it was cooling and unceremoniously dumped it into a cloth-laden basket.

The pie was a hefty thing, small wisps of steam still coming off of its lovingly latticed crust. She was just turning around to look for the basket lid when the sound of familiar footsteps-not quite hurried, but not daring to dawdle- approached the big kitchen window that let all the light into her rustic wooden kitchen.

"Yes, maw?" Tom, pleasantly plump and rosy cheeked, had grass stains on his knees and mud on his shirt. He was sweating hard, despite the light breeze that gently ran through his downy brown hair.

Most afternoons, he and a bunch of other scruffy little kids in the village would be running around playing football or playing detective near the shores. They would go looking for treasure and pirate ships, having been deeply inspired by Enid Blyton's fantastical works, all too eager at the prospect of adventure. 

As of now, young Tom looked disgruntled at being called away from a particularly engaging football match.

The boy sniffed the air as he came up to the window, eyes brightening when he saw the pie in the basket. A gluttonous grin alighted upon his round face. "Is that your famous steak n' onion pie?" he exclaimed in delight, previous surliness forgotten in the wake of this pleasant discovery. "What's the occasion, Maw? Is Gran coming over?"

"Naw, we're welcomin' the new neighbour.” she replied promptly, throwing open a few more cabinet doors and shuffling the contents about. She stopped when they tethered on the edge, threatening to fall over.

“Don't touch that!" Way quicker than should be fair for someone her size, Tom's mother slapped away chubby fingers that she just noticed reaching over for an impromptu taste test of buttery crust. Tom yelped and recoiled his hand, foiled.

His mother just levelled him an unimpressed glare.

"You," she instructed firmly, grabbing the basket lid that had just been discovered in one of the cupboards and clapping it over the pie, "will be taking this to Mr. Kirkland. Now don't yer dare try to nibble anything." She wagged a chubby finger at her son for emphasis, making him grumble his assent. "Ah've worked very hard on this, and if I ever find out you gobbledegooked Mr. Kirkland's hoosewarmin' present......"

The unspoken threat hung in the air.

"And mind you don't be late for tea; we're havin' clementine muffins and hot chocolate today."

_That_ made Tom perk up.

Oh, the deliciousness. The thought of sticky sweet treats his maw was famous for baking had him salivating a pool......But the memory of a tall man with a grim face popped into the boy's mind. 

That would be the aforementioned Mr. Kirkland.

He lived alone in the lighthouse on top of the hill, surrounded by his buttload of plants no one (and he means no one, not even his mother, the nosiest busybody in the village) saw him moving into his new home. He's kept to himself for the entire brief period of time he'd been here, and didn't seem keen on visitors. 

Like moving onto a desolate hill wasn't an obvious enough clue. Calling him a neighbour already seems like a bit of a stretch, seeing as there wasn't a single soul that lived within at least a couple kilometres radius from the abandoned lighthouse.

Now, if he’s being entirely honest with himself, Tom didn't quite look forward to going up there. That hill was overgrown with all sorts of vegetation. Furthermore, t'was a tedious hike to the top where the abandoned lighthouse was situated, and he’s already tired from the football game…...

And, well, he was convinced the place was haunted. But for good reason, of course! 

Because you see, there were old, but still ongoing urban legends that numerous people have died up there......plus other stories too.

The fishermen would sometimes regale Tom and his friends with tales about the abandoned lighthouse over chilled bez on large wooden crates they used as tables by the docks; catching the sea wind with their mouths before getting back to weaving new nets or patchin' up their shoddy boats. Being a small coastal village, the people simply made do wi' what they had.

One of the most common tales told were of many years ago, among the cluster of rocks jutting out a ways from the lighthouse cliff.

When the night was brightest and dawn darkest, there would be a light on in the tower. No one knew who lit it. No one dared to find out.

_Wrong!_ A different sailor bellowed. He'd only two fingers on one hand, the index and the thumb. They made pincher movements as the sailor spoke. _My paw said there were a horde of lights- will o' the wisps. They only appear when somethings rottin', there must be corpses up there, he said._ _The villagers would later curse themselves when them damned souls guided our daddies' ships to the rocks, leaving them to dash their little wooden boats to splinters as do the unfortunate sailors’ bones. Fishermen were killed by the hundreds, until they grew enough brains tae stop fallin' for the lighthouse's tricks._

_It was a witch_ , the oldest of the fishermen interrupted, having once before climbed into the old lighthouse and gotten only a heart attack (and a hard tumble down the stairs) for his effort. _Ah' saw them ritual artefacts, bits and bones and blood boiled to dryness in a black cauldron. It's a witch that cursed those men, mark mah’ words,_ he spittled and frothed through his two missing front teeth.

And he said with such conviction Tom couldn't help but believe it too.

In short, the lad wasn't too keen on going up there. Also, not like he was scared of him or anything, but Mr. Kirkland looked like _he'd_ boil people in a cauldron. He looked like a witch too. What with the red hair and green eyes......though his mother insisted the man's hair color was a 'fine shade of auburn', and his eyes 'seafoam green'. Strange of her to be so insistent on the flowery description, but he doesn't understand most adults anyway. 

But he is digressing. There is a more pressing matter at hand.

"Aw, come on, maw. That's like a thirty minute hike." He whinged. Knowing his mother it was futile, but who knows, she might surprise him today.

"Then take the bike, you'll halve that time. Yer need the exercise anyway." She handed him the basket. "Off yer go now. Shoo."

Biting back a smart remark about who was the one who needed more exercise around here, Tom went round to the front of the house and grabbed his bicycle. He found it leaning against the side of the house just ‘round the corner, still looking a bit muddy from the last time he took it out for a spin.

Hanging the wicker basket off one handle, he saddled himself comfy on the tattered leather seat and took off on the bumpy roadside, fully intending to use the shortcut about seven minutes ride ahead despite the steep incline. He supposed he could manage, he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

What an awful chore. At least he had good tea to look forward to today.

* * *

The ride uphill was much steeper than he remembered.

The poor boy huffed and puffed with every turn on the pedal. If he moved any slower, he'd be rolling down the hill right into the briar patch on the bend.

Strange, though, he didn't recall this many thorny plants the last time he and his friends snuck up here......which admittedly, was quite some time ago. The rest of the hillside looked much the same. 

Little birds twittered in their nests among the interwoven branches, high above in mighty oaks.

Pinpricks of sunbeams dappled the trees and soil in strange patterns, gently warming sheddings of twigs and pine needles carpeting the forest bed. With every step he took, the smell of rain and greens surrounded him thoroughly, drawing him further into nature.

If he listened hard enough, he would hear shrill cries of seagulls coming from the east side, carrying an undertone of ocean waves…...as if he were pressing his ear to the lavender conch shell he’d found on the shores yesterday.

So enraptured Tom was by the beauty of hilly nature all around him, he didn’t realize he was veering off the narrow dirt path. The boy was broken out of his reverie when he almost failed to dodge a huge tangle of poison ivy hanging off one of the many redwoods that covered the hill. It was at that point he realized he could barely recognize where he was anymore. Just how far had he wandered off the road?

It took more time than he cared to remember to find his way back on track, tripping over a few roots in the process. He could’ve sworn those darned things were jutting out of the ground to catch his feet just to spite him.

He trudged hard over the gnarled, moss-covered roots, exacting some sort of petty revenge every time he faceplanted the dirt. Some time went by, and he somehow managed to put himself in a U-turn heading back to the foot of the hill.

The torture of navigating this funty grove went on for 10 minutes more before the lighthouse finally peeked into sight between the highest branches the towering foilage.

The late afternoon sunlight fell upon his face in a warm ochre glow, making him lift a hand to his eyes and squint.

He made his way up just a little more, breathless when he finally reached the hill’s peak.

Seeing as he took the shortcut, Tom had ended up in Mr. Kirkland's backyard. He hoped the man won’t mind, seeing as he was getting a darn good pie out of it. The area didn't have a fence or anything, so how did he know this was the backyard, some might ask.

Well, he would answer, because after fighting through poison ivy, getting pricked in the buttocks by brambles, and, inevitably, rolling down the hill and thus ending up with a ruined bike (he saved the pie at least, at the cost of his knee skins), he’s become pretty attuned to anything that spoke even slightly of human civilization. 

A thick hedge that must've been at least 8 feet tall blocked his way to getting in.

It was glorious and thorny, threaded with vibrant blue florets blooming on its many climbing tendrils, adorned with purplish-black thorns.

They were so violently blue, Tom could have sworn they glowed. Or maybe that was just the aftereffects of the sun in his eyes from before. It didn’t help convince him his eyesight was okay that there was a cloud of pale yellow butterflies floating from floret to floret as if they hadn’t a care in the world. 

They parted like the Red Sea when Tom pushed through the barest part of the thick bush he could find, soft wings batting like a seductive woman's eyelashes and tickling his rosy-apple cheeks. He had to crawl on all fours to get through, pushing the pie basket ahead of him. 

Young Tom decided he would simply make his way in there first, then walk around to the front door. Or just knock on the back door. He's way too tired and hurt to bother with walking around this humongous hedge, no matter how picturesque it was, so his little trespassing was justified in a way.

Normally he would've considered turning back by now. However, the road down was positively treacherous.

Also, it felt a bit like letting the hill win, weird as that sounded. On a more logical note, perhaps Mr. Kirkland could fix his bike, or give him a ride down the hill. He didn’t much like this idea, but the thought of having to slog through that mess of nature once more, without a usable bike this time, has made him conveniently more open-minded of his enigmatic neighbour.

"Oh goodness me." 

A surprisingly homey looking garden greeted his eyes once he got through. It was a spacy backyard garden; freshly tilled rows of dark soil was fenced off with twine string and little picket signs. The beginnings of tiny green shoots poked out of the ground, trembling in the ocean breeze that was tossing the laundry on the wires of a homemade drying rack.

Kirkland must have spent _days_ transporting his flora from their pots. Maybe that's why his lighthouse still looked overtly inhospitable.

If he were Kirkland, Tom thought, he would probably clear up those creepers digging cracks into the walls first. And coat those water stains with fresh paint. Maybe put away those really sharp sticks that poked diagonally outward through the hedge; it looked awfully unsafe! Maybe it's for protecting the hedge?

He supposed his elusive neighbour just really adored plants.

The rest of the garden was crowded with the older plants: many looked exotic and Tom couldn't recognize any of those. However, he did manage to identify feathery purple blooms of bee balm hanging in terracotta pots from the roof. Also, an overgrowth of mint on his left side (strange, it looked pretty settled in for a new plant), patches of lush leafy basil, tiny butter-yellow buds of dill near the door......

Which swung open. The voices of two men rapidly following.

Tom _threw_ himself behind some blueberry bushes as fast as he could. He's not entirely sure why, but instinct was telling him he didn't want to be caught poking around in Kirkland's backyard. His knees screamed in protest at having their raw wounds sandpapered by the cracked ground.

"Ah don't care, England. I’m not going to just stand by and do nothing."

_England? Wot?_

Tom didn't have much time to ponder on the strange use of the neighboring country's name before stiffening at the sight of Kirkland's boots appearing in his line of sight. The brown leather strode across the garden to a lone alder tree where a pile of gardening supplies lay. Hot on his heels was a pair of smart, polished footwear Tom once saw in a fancy tailor’s shop in town.

"And just what do you hope to accomplish on this fool's errand, hm?" The second man's shiny, black-as-a-button oxfords stopped some distance behind Kirkland. He didn’t step any closer, but his voice carried a simultaneous challenge and reprimand. 

"Remember the last time you rushed in to meddle with affairs like this-"

"Don’t." Kirkland’s words were low but sharp. The other man fell silent. Tom imagined his tall neighbour to be clenching whatever gardening tool he’s managed to get his hands on, a faint but distinct crackle of wood splintering from the pressure of its owner’s grip, withholding a rash but tempting act of violence. 

Tom felt a chill down his spine.

The boots turned around. His next words, if not for their steady tone, would almost have sounded pained.

"Ye…... cannae just bring that up whenever you want me to stay out of wizard business."

Tom's heart fell into his stomach. 

_Oh no._

So the stories were true after all. He had to get out of here!

Tension was running high between the two witch-men before him, so maybe they would be distracted enough for him to push out the same hole in the hedge. Anywhere else was too thick! 

"The trees have been talking." Kirkland began again, sounding a bit calmer than before. An exasperated groan escaped from the man named England at his words.

“Oh brother.”

He was ignored. "They've been whispering for years.” Kirkland continued, but more to himself than his companion. “If I'd listened earlier, we might have been able to nip this in the bud."

"God, Scotland. For once in your life, _think things through!_ Tree gossip wasn't, and still _isn't,_ reliable sources of information!" yelled England. Tom imagined he might be throwing up his hands in frustration. His shiny shoes sure were doing a great job of scuffing up the grass in their sudden need to pace.

"Don't base your opinions just from one mistake of mine from the past-"

"Hush!" England commanded, chancing a few steps closer to make himself heard. "We all thought Voldemort was dead, alright? None of us felt a single scrap of his presence; no one could have seen this coming! So don't go around blaming me for not letting you run amok in the wizarding world four years back!"

"I did!" Kirkland or Scotland or whatever his name was had raised his voice as well. One boot took an agitated step forward, but didn’t move further than that. Would an actual physical fight would break out, wondered Tom. It would make for a good opening to escape unseen. "Isaw it coming!”

“I don't know how that bastard did it, but some foul shadow of his had been hanging around Hogwarts since 1990 and none of ye goddamn eejits believed me." England’s protests of how Scotland/Kirkland was the only one who felt his presence, a presence that Scotland himself admitted fluctuated between faint presence and absence, went ignored. 

"And even now, with everything that's happened recently, you still have the fucking _gall_ to act like I'm some sort of paranoid hothead- hang on.” The boots shifted in sudden alertness. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?” came the reply. The raised eyebrow could practically be heard in England’s voice. “You’re not exactly making a compelling case for your argument here, Scotland.”

_Oh God,_ Tom realized, heart thrumming like a hummingbird. _I left that darn pie out there._

“Whatever, it’s fine if you don’t smell it. I’m sure all that walking with yer head up yours caked yer conk shitey.” 

Kirkland stalked towards the basket where the suspicious aroma was coming from with such seriousness his brother did not even attempt a retort, instead following after him. Tom suppressed the nervous urge to giggle (the sort one unfortunately gets during the worst timings of hide-and-seek) by sticking his fist into his gob. 

Was it possible for him to remain hidden at this point? Should he try to make a break for it? He can’t imagine being fast enough to escape whatever curse they may place on him; from what he'd gathered from their conversation, Kirkland sounds like someone whose reflexes are triggered by sudden movements.

* _tap* *tap* *tap*_

Oh dear Lord in Heaven Kirkland was getting closer. This is it. He’s going to die in a cauldron, boiled to a gamy soup cube by witch-men. Some old fisherman’s going to find his gnarly remains and tell cautionary tales to other bairns that probably won’t listen, and make the same mistakes he’s made. 

Fat tears were running down Tom’s rosy-apple cheeks. Oh, how he wished he’d said goodbye to his maw. 

The footsteps stopped. A few strides shy of his hiding place, a lean arm reached down and picked up the wicker basket. Tom tried to make himself as small as possible; holding his breath as the tall man got closer, which was plenty difficult as he was holding back sniffles as well.

“What is it?” whispered England, coming up at his brother’s shoulder.

Kirkland turned around and, from the soft _oomph_ that escaped the other man’s lungs, had thrust the basket into his chest. 

“S’nothing. Just a little something from the local gruagach, he likes the garden. Let’s go oan inside.” There was a bit of quiet between the two men. Then, to his immense relief, Tom watched the boots head back the way they first came.

“Alright, I suppose we’re having fae pastry for tea then. How quaint.” Tom wondered if this England was being sarcastic, or if there was some private witch joke that had just sailed past his head. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Both men marched off to the direction of the lighthouse, their shoes disappearing out of sight as they went up the little steps leading to the back door. Only once he heard the door swing shut did Tom finally allow himself to breathe normally.

He’s never coming back up here again ever. Also, he’s got to warn the other villagers, especially his maw. They had to know the danger they were in before the fishermen killings start all over again!

Quiet as a fox, he made his way out of the bushes-

A bright jet of red came streaking towards him at light speed. Suddenly unable to move a split second before it hit, the poor boy was only able to register the sensation of falling before everything went black.

____________________________________________________________________________

"I was gesturing _I'll cast_ _Petrificus Totalus,_ you violent hick!" 

“And I was gesturing ‘I’ll handle it, go back inside’. Ah told you charades wasn’t a stupid family night game and this is why, ye dramatic peacock. Ye looked like a dancing Christmas goose!”

Scotland and England leaned over the prone body of a sweaty, overweight boy with varying levels of concern etched on their faces.

Which is to say, England looked uncomfortable at having assisted in blasting an already battered-looking little boy across the lawn whereas Scotland just crouched over the unconscious lad, looking as though he were figuring out a math problem.

  
The power of the blast had caught the child in the side with such force it spun him like top into the hedge where he got stuck on the thorns, looking for all the world like a shorter, fatter Jesus newly crucified on a bush. The cloud of butterflies immediately swarmed in to eat his blood and had Scotland not stepped in and dragged him out of there, he'd be as dry as a corn husk.

Which has now led them to this point in time and place.

“I know him.” Scotland muttered, moving in to scoop the boy up into his arms. Placing an arm around his shoulders and the other under the knees, the Scotsman lifted him as if he was as light as a feather and headed for the lighthouse. England moved ahead of him to push the door open, hurrying the taller man inside.

“What do you mean? You know this lad?” questioned England, his heavy brows furrowing like angry caterpillars. “Are his parents going to come looking for him, or do we have time to check for magical damage?”

“He’s the baker’s son. She’s usually busy, so we’ve got a bit before anyone notices he’s missing.”

Turning around for one last check to make sure no one witnessed the little incident, Scotland walked into his kitchen, shutting the door behind him by hooking his foot on the edge and pulling it closed. The hinges squealed as they swung the door closed. 

England threw the window open and convulsed his hands, putting up complex wards around the lighthouse.

The tall auburn-haired man unceremoniously dumped the boy on the table, the furniture creaking a little under the sudden weight, but ultimately held steady.

Yanking out a couple of thick files he'd laid the boy on and throwing them on the first unoccupied space he saw in his peripheral vision (on the linoleum next to the sink), he walked out of the tiny kitchen to the living room.

To the left wall of the room were a flight of wooden stairs held together by a thin iron railing with curls like a frond on the ends. It was always flaking reddish-brown rust on the floors Scotland had given up on sweeping clean. He notably avoided touching the rickety old thing as he made his way up the steps, simply placing his thumbs in his pockets. 

The wood creaked with every step the auburn-haired man made going up as if threatening to fall apart beneath him.

He reached the first floor; the stairs continued up further to a few more floors in a thin spiral that finally led up to a frail-looking wooden door that led to the roof.

Brisk was his pace but not hasty; the _Stupefy_ he sent the bairn’s way barely grazed him. In that tense moment, his reflexes weren’t fast enough to stop the hex entirely, but sharp enough to redirect the shot once he realized it wasn’t anyone dangerous. It wouldn’t feel any worse than some good old-fashioned roughhousing with the other wee bairns his age. 

Nevertheless, some healing tonic was necessary for any possible lingering damage and Scotland had just the thing in his private study. 

With the help of his trusty magically-expandable laboratory slash clothing chest (he’s had it for a long time, hence the appliances he had were jarring mix of sleek, top of the line technology among vintage Victorian era flasks, tubes and other thingamabobs), he’d isolated the active ingredient, which turned out to be a magic-infused virus strain, inoculated the thing in multiple species of Gram-negative, Gram-positive and atypical bacteria until he hit the jackpot with a rare _Pseudomonas,_ then created a microbe that had regenerative properties when greatly diluted into a homemade probiotic solution. It worked rapidly and rather painlessly, but increased the risk of developing malignant tumors at the wrong dose. 

He wondered if he could somehow sneak the recipe into the Wizarding World’s Healer circles anonymously. Perhaps after he starts work in Hogwarts.

_________________________________________________________________________

Meanwhile, England was rummaging in Scotland’s cupboards for a first aid kit. The first one he opened expelled a cloud of dust that had him hacking up a lung, the sound bouncing off the bare walls.

“Damn it, Scotland!” He coughed miserably, fanning a hand in front of his face and moving on to the next cupboard. “You’ve been living here for at least a week, why is your kitchen still so nasty- oh, disgusting.”

A writhing mass of black sat on the wood. Once the sunshine alighted upon them they immediately dispersed, a hundred cockroaches scuttling in all directions and leaving only the mostly-eaten carcass of a small rat. A few bluebottle flies buzzed around it, and the Englishman could see maggots wriggling around in whatever small pieces of flesh left on the rodent’s bones.

Grabbing a handful of tissues from the counter, England held his breath and gingerly picked up the revolting remains. Trying to ignore the way the damp bones shifted beneath his fingers and seeped fluids he didn’t want to think about (but could definitely smell), he lifted the rubbish bin lid to throw the dead rat inside.

It was not a rubbish bin.

“Oh _fuck!_ ” England recoiled his hand as fast he could, dodging a ball-like projectile that shot out of the bin like a greased bullet. It hit the ceiling and burst, the resulting juices eating a hole in the cement while emitting dirty yellow fumes.

An acrid smell followed.

Rooted to the spot, the blonde man could only stare at the smoking hole in horror. A loud rattle called the Englishman’s attention back to whatever it was in the bin that just tried to kill him.

All color drained from his face as thick brown tendrils with green streaks and wicked sharp thorns begin to spill out, the many ball-shaped spores attached to them pulsing like wet frog hearts, threatening to make like a myocardial infarction and _pop._

Whipping out a star-tipped wand from a hidden holster and wielding the soft carcass with his left arm like a throwing weapon, England was about to _Reducto_ the creature right out the window as _dust in the fecking wind_ before his brother's voice stopped him.

"Don't hurt her!"

Sparks flew out of the Englishman's wand as he froze.

"Give her something to eat,” Scotland’s voice carried from upstairs. He must have heard his brother’s scream and assumed his vicious pet had just been discovered. He didn’t sound very surprised; or too apologetic for that matter, much to the annoyance of England. “It’ll distract her. And put the lid back on, she’s shy.”

The blonde man felt his temper rise once more. It usually did in the presence of his brothers, but mostly Scotland, really.

“Oh, _excuse me,_ I didn’t realize. So very sorry for offending your plant’s delicate sensibilities. By the way, were you going to mention that you have a FUCKING VENOMOUS TENTACULA IN THE KITCHEN?! THAT BEAST IS _HUGE_ , IT COULD HAVE SENT SOMEONE TO THE HOSPITAL, WHY THE HECK ARE YOU SO IRRESPONSIBLE THIS IS WHY I DON’T WANT YOU TO GET INVOLVED WITH HOGWARTS-”

This was all in his mind, of course. He didn’t even get past “Oh-” before his rant died in his throat: one of the tendrils started swiping blindly, way too close to the lad on the table for comfort.

About three more spores flew around, hissing and stinking up everywhere it hit, much like mustard gas back in the trenches…...bad memories. England shook them off. 

One hit a teapot, a sizzling noise following immediately. 

Well, there went the tea. He was actually looking forward to drinking that. Say what you will about Scotland, but the man grew some pretty tasty tea leaves. And tea blooms. Tea roots.

The other hit his wand right out of his sweaty grip and took both items sailing out the open window.

The last spore England dodged.

He seriously couldn’t care less what it ended up destroying, because Scotland deserved it, that _git_. His elder brother’s paying through his nose for a new wand if this one’s ruined. It's a goddamned custom-made wand with a star tip made of _actual meteorite_ _minerals_ , and one of its kind, for goodness' sake. It's priceless!

So is this situation, or so Scotland would think, because he's the sort of arsehole that finds risky situations entertaining.

The poor baker’s boy really was out of luck, though. First getting roughed up on the hill, then getting hexed off his feet by his own countries (hey, he’s the entire UK, alright?), and now, the poor boy was going to get eaten by one of the most vicious plants the magical world has seen fit to evolve into existence. 

Not if he can help it.

Not that England has a soft spot for kids or anything, he’s just a responsible adult watching out for one of his citizens. What’s Scotland’s is his too, after all. Hell, he’s probably the one that ought to be infiltrating Hogwarts, not his brother, who has such minimal experience with human youngsters he was bound to screw up whatever poor children that genius wacko Dumbledore assigned him to teach.

If he gets hired, anyway.

Wait, yes. England was saving the lad.

With all his might, he chucked the lump of rotting rodent as hard as he could in the direction of the Tentacula before running to the knife stand for the biggest fucking knife he could get his hands on.

Screw Scotland, he’s chopping up that thing if it gets anymore out of hand.

Luckily, it did not come to that. With reflexes as quick as a cat, the plant caught the tender carcass and crushed it with a resounding _squelch,_ spraying the floor with rat goo. The wave of stench washed across the room was so noxious England had to cover his nose with his sleeve, tasting the smell in his mouth instead. 

From his peripheral vision, the boy twitched but didn’t rouse.

Thankfully, the Tentacula was appeased with the foul offering. All tendrils trashing above the rim curled in on themselves, returning into the metal can where the rest of the plant had made its home. 

All but one.

It tapped around the floorboards as though looking for something.

Making a good guess, England bent down and hastily slid the rubbish bin lid over from where he’d dropped it on the floor. The knife remained tightly gripped in hand, ready for things to turn ugly.

The wily plant curled its tendril around the handle and pulled back into the can, slamming the lid shut after itself.

Faint chewing noises echoed within after a short pause.

England let out a breath of relief. But he was careful not to inhale too deeply after, as the room still stank. Of decaying rat or otherwise.

The Englishman turned to glare at Scotland, who was leaning his shoulder on the door jamb with a corked bottle in his hand, looking as though he wasn’t rearing a very dangerous and highly illegal botanical specimen that just tried to kill his brother and some random child.

_Git._ England cursed in his head. He set the knife down on the table.

“Alcohol’s not safe for children under sixteen, you know. It lowers blood sugar to dangerous levels in their brain and causes neuronal cell death.”

A change of subject might deter him from committing a crime of passion.

“I know.” the taller man grunted, uncorking the bottle with a quick twist of his calloused fingers. He walked over to the table, tipping the boy’s chin up to pour the contents into his mouth more gently than his outward appearance would suggest he was capable of. 

He slapped England’s hands away when the other man tried to pull his wrist back, a murky green liquid sloshing out of the bottle at the movement. “It ain't alcohol. I know what I’m doing, so quit fussing.” 

England narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms in front of his loose, biscuit-colored cardigan. “Sure you do. That’s why you’ve been avoiding everyone.” He held his arms out and jiggled his hands in the most mocking manner he could muster, turning around the spot to disparagingly gesture at the peeling walls, dinky furniture and mostly bare room.

“That’s why you’ve been holing yourself up in this godforsaken little spit of land, so none of us can stop you from your most-definitely-not-half-baked mission that’s more intention than actual plan. Because you definitely know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, so you want to do this right now?” Despite the annoyance in his voice, Scotland did not lift his head up from his evaluation of the silly, well-meaning human boy’s physical condition.

The rosy tint that belonged to healthy children was flooding back into the bairn's visage right before their eyes, so that was good. His organs won't be shutting down like Scotland's attempts at independence from the United Kingdom in the near future, so the worst was basically over without need for involving St. Mungo's. The scrapes on the knees and elbows were healing as well, though, which might be tricky to explain away later. 

You know, if he didn't intend to wipe his memory as soon as he woke up.

Scotland took a long breath and ran a hand through his thick hair, gripping it at the ends before letting his palm fall to the table. He supposed there was no putting off now, then. The older man knew that there was no keeping this secret mission of his for long; however, unlike his finicky younger brother's accusations otherwise, he had put a lot of thought into this.

England might still forbid him from going through with this, but maybe, maybe he would understand where Scotland was coming from. 

Scotland turned to face his brother, wearing an insufferably expectant look which screamed _you owe me an answer_ that made him want to keep silent as an _I dinnae owe ye shite_ , but the auburn haired man won't get anything done here by being petty. "I have reason to believe the Ministry of Magic is compromised. "

"What?" England's mouth pursed, eyebrows almost disappearing into his messy blonde locks. Of all the answers he was preparing to hear, this one came completely out of left field. It was completely unfeasible that that megalomaniac Voldemort had gathered enough momentum so soon after his second debut into the Wizarding World, and even if he did his return wouldn't still be debated so hotly-

"How- what-" he sputtered, cutting off his own frantic thoughts. "Where did you hear this from?" The younger man narrowed his eyes immediately when a thought suddenly occurred to him. 

"I swear to God if you say the fucking trees-"

"You shut yer mouth about the trees! Anyways," Scotland cleared his throat as if to wash out his sudden outburst, "this was something I had found out on my own. I didn't want to raise any false alarms until I'd gathered enough evidence, but I've gotten nowhere so far."

"So that's why you moved here?" Pulling out a chair that was probably fifty years old, England made himself comfortable and cut himself a slice of pie with the carving knife he originally meant to behead the Tentacula with. The pastry looked quite mangled, but oddly, he didn't see that many crumbs despite distinct pieces of the braided crust missing. "To prepare infiltrating the Hogwarts staff and then…...what?"

"Join the resistance. Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, I'm sure you know of it. Keep an eye on the Potter boy, where he'll surely be attacked, which will be a vital lead to the moles You-Know-Who's hidden among the ranks. Both in the Order and the Ministry. Then, they'll be flushed out and Voldemort's existence can't be denied anymore."

"So you'll be using him as bait?"

"The snake bastard has a strange fixation with this boy. Its bound to lead to his downfall, and I'm not going to wait around for it to happen."

His gaze hardened.

"Not while we can finish this before history repeats itself."

For his part, England just looked like the day had been mad enough, and this might as well happen, so he will just go along with his brother's madness and see where it goes from here. Much calmer with this acceptance settling in his mind, he stuffed a forkful of pie in his mouth.

Oh, it was _good._ Beef bursting forth with blood-tangy juices and dribbling thick peppered gravy. Bit lardy, though.

"Rye pau?"

Well, it's good enough to make the walking British gentleman stereotype to forget his table manners.

"I dinnae have any Chinese food. You're already eating my pie, don't be greedy."

"No," England swallowed. "I said 'Why now'?"

"What do ye mean?"

"What the hell happened to make you think all this is necessary? And, more importantly," England stared right at his brother, "why didn't you tell any of us? Or more importantly, me? Surely you didn't suspect _we_ were compromised."

One of those questions were harder to answer than the other. The simple answer was something he already mentioned: that they would've misguidedly tried to preserve their brother's safety by throwing a wrench in his plans. But that wasn't really what England was asking and Scotland knew it. 

Letting his frustration about the whole matter show would just make his younger brother (and though the Scot would never it admit out loud, his superior political-wise) more suspicious, and a mildly suspicious England was already motivated enough to hunt him down around the most rural backwaters of Scotland the country.

So, Scotland the personification did the wise thing and diverted attention away from the subject he didn't want to get into, by making the answer to the other question irresistibly engaging.

He leaned an arm on the table next to the bairn's head. Almost absentmindedly, he picked a little crust off the pie and put it in his mouth. 

"Well, I was doing some reconnaissance around the Potter boy's home. It's a really long story, so……"

His eyes drifted to the window. The sun was now a deep golden yolk, staining the ocean on the horizon with color.

In its warm beams, the magical shield around a large, impressive castle across the sea shimmered like a soap bubble.

"......get comfortable, I guess."


	2. The Stars Don't Give A Damn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes we just go through the motions, you know.

**Chapter 1: The Stars Don't Give A Damn**

_2nd August, 1995_

_Privet Drive, Little Whinging_

Scotland had been expecting a bit of trouble around Potter, of course. Hell, he himself had been getting into trouble since the day he manifested out of a cove whose only way in was at least ten feet under the ocean, fished out kicking and screaming by a long-haired barbarian whom he would later call Celt, and even later on: a real pain in the arse, bad influence, enthusiastic teacher, beloved parent, dead. And he’s not even the Boy-Who-Lived, just some commoner with a bit of a temper and an affliction called indeterminate permanence.

Still. He definitely wasn’t expecting this horseshite.

The beginning of the story to the current mess happened three days ago, on a slow Monday evening.

Scotland was sitting alone on one of those high stools at the local bar, holding a fag between his fingers and a glass pooling condensation from ice that’s hit the bottom way more times than it’s stayed afloat. He's just left St. Andrew's House in a cab, exhausted from all the major and minor politicking he's had to endure in the office, as well as the constant reminder that the matters he handled doesn't carry the same weight England's work does. Needless to say, he was kind of going through the motions, and needed a fucking drink.

When the bartender started getting real disinclined to leave the bottle at Scotland's spot for the third time that evening, the personification slid over a fiver- practically chucked it at the man's face- and snatched the absinthe from his loose fingers when he was distracted with grabbing the cash.

He remembers blowing long plumes of heavy smoke, slow as molasses into the air. Fascinated in a distracted sort of way by how it blurred everyone and everything in the bar, refracting the neon blue light behind the counter all around him like a psychedelic, incandescent cumulonimbus. Then the sight of everyone and everything started coming back through the dimming blue haze, and he had to take another drag to bring them out of focus again. 

And again, and again, til’ the stub burned his lips and he had to cool it off with more absinthe. It made every spot he rested his eyes on in the bar a trippy nirvana that smelled of booze and human sweat.

One thing led to another, and the next thing he knows he’s chugging a Ballantine’s Finest while riding a broomstick at top speed to wherever his wasted instincts were telling him the Dark Lord was waiting to get his arse kicked, blasting rock n’ roll music on a cheap portable radio strapped to the hilt with his belt. Pants indecently loose and whooping war cries like a madman, he whizzed left. Right. Made loop de loops. Knocked a hole right through a billboard advertising real estate ( _fecking hell, developing more land?_ He mentally complained, but verbally only managed a displeased ‘blargh’) then swooped dangerously low through the empty streets, kicking newspapers up into the air and overturning trash cans before shooting himself up high high high above the endless clouds til’ all he could see was the stars and how much they didn’t give a damn about what happened to anyone or anything…... 

…...then lost his grip. 

Wind rushed all around him as he fell, his bottle of single malt following right by his loose fingertips as it trailed a mahogany line in the sky, both plummeting down to certain doom. 

The mad energy coursing wild through his veins from before left him all of a sudden. Letting his body go limp, he allowed gravity run its course, falling so fast everything around him slowed down. 

He hazily registered stars again. A hundred thousand blinking lights below that glowed warm yellow instead of cold white. 

_Oh._

They were so blurry.

He could feel wetness running down (up?) his face. Was it the wind, or was he just sad?

Maybe both, because he fucked up real bad. 

He’s still fucking up so bad.

He’s not sure when exactly he came to his senses, but he Apparated just before he hit the asphalt of some random area he doesn’t know nor care the name of, appeared of the thin air somewhere and landed _splat_ right into a pond. A _painful_ splat, it was one of those full bodied (and full-faced) slaps on the water that stung every inch of exposed skin and made him pass out instantly from the shock, sinking to the bottom like a dead leaf. What he’s _pretty sure_ of is that he must’ve drowned a couple of times before pulling himself out of that mosquito-infested cesspool onto the edge of some bland-ass lawn, because water was coming out of every orifice and dribbling onto a dumb picket sign that read _Welcome to Privet Drive_ in flouncy cursive for hours since he’d gained consciousness sometime in the wee hours of the morning.

Scotland wasn’t aware of where he was or what he was doing at first. 

It was only during a freezing shower in a stall of a public restroom, the spray of the water pipe gushing down his auburn head and trickling down his bruised body crouched on the toilet seat, bowing his head between his knees in the dark while watching water flow along the moldy tiles to spiral into the drain, that he remembered everything about the night before. He’d felt burning shame rise in his gut, but alongside it came a tired acceptance that he had zero motivation to avoid a similar episode.

He remembers pressing a palm over his green eyes _hard_. 

Yes. He knows he hates himself for that stupid stunt with Voldemort he pulled so many years past (yet not so long ago, not really), but the extent to which he is able to _not_ give a flying fuck about his own well being startles even himself. Sometimes.

It really ought to shake him up more than it did back then. Maybe it’ll kick in later, he had thought.

The reality of where he’d somehow subconsciously Apparated himself to and what it meant began to sink in sometime after cleaning up. 

Splaying out on a bench to dry off under the rising sun, a long leg hanging over the backrest and an arm over his eyes, he’d wondered what on earth possessed his drunken self to come here before remembering that this was where the Potter boy _lived_. He’d sprung up on the bench all of a sudden, scaring away some pigeons pecking away at his feet. Nobody was around to be surprised because they were all avoiding the weird stranger napping on the bench. Some huddy sorely in need of his morning jogging gave him a stink eye and muttered ‘good-for-nothing layabout’ as he climbed into his painfully run-of-the-mill car, and for his sake, he should have been glad Scotland didn’t hear.

Because an absolutely _brilliant_ idea had just popped into the Scotsman’s mind. (Granted, it was a varied continuation of his sloshed plot to murder the Dark Lord, but this one more rational.)

You know, since he was passing by and all, wouldn’t it be prudent just to check up on the Potter lad?

The poor wee cunt has had Voldemort after him since before he could think for himself, and now the bastard himself is back from the dead, Potter was in more danger than before. Of course, Scotland had added to himself, it’s only common sense that Dumbledore would have stationed some protection already. 

Still, he reasoned it wouldn’t hurt just to make sure everything was peachy. It’s not like he’s got much pressing matters that can’t get done without him. Oh sure, England will bitch and moan, but Scotland knew it was mostly for show. His younger brother always secretly liked being in charge of things, to be depended on, to assume no one can get by without his helping hand.

Bah.

Anyways, Scotland had gotten off his arse, dusted his clothes and made his way to the neighborhood.

* * *

It took a bit of asking around, but eventually he found himself on the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive. Walking up the pavement, he came to a stop in front of a beautifully kept front garden and just stood there, thumbs hooked in his pockets. On reflex, he caressed the hilt of his pine wand hidden within.

So this is where the bairn that defeated one of the most troublesome wizards in history was raised, he’d thought. Deceptively plain.

He didn’t move for quite a while. Merely observed the pristine white paint of the quaint little house, admiring how the sunlight glanced off it to give an awfully pastel, suburban feel. A warm breeze ruffled his hair, reminding him of his damp clothes and the summer heat.

Then, his gaze lowered to the garden. 

“I suppose none of ye could tell me if a laddie named Harry Potter is around.”

The flora did not respond.

“Noticed any…” His eyes darted back and forth while the rest of his person remained perfectly still, checking if there was anyone watching him act weird in front of the Boy-Who-Lived’s home and sanctuary. There were none he could see. “...funny business lately?”

The petunias waved a little in the wind, but the plants here were as mute as they are muggle. A very Muggle neighbourhood, this. Wizards and witches ought to stick out like a sore thumb around these parts. If there were any bodyguards around, they were keeping hidden, or had disguised themselves very well.

Perhaps they’ve finally learned subtlety, but Scotland really doubted it.

He pulled a few more suspicious stunts that should have warranted some investigation from whoever was supposed to be protecting Harry Potter, but nothing had come of it. Just a horribly thin woman with horse teeth, glaring at him through the curtains before quickly shuffling away to an old-fashioned house telephone sitting on a small round table and picking up the receiver, probably to call the police. It would seem that security for Potter was lacking, he’d decided. 

Hence, Scotland did the smart thing and began trailing Harry Potter himself. 

For the next few days, he hung around the house in his in his Animagus form, the golden eagle. Personally, he felt the bird of prey was more bronze than outright gold, but he supposed some people just call it what they want it to look like and not how it actually is. In his case, the shade was more the color of shiny copper, which is about as red as these avians could get. 

He tried not to stand out too much by hiding deep in the trees. They don’t speak to him either. He tried.

It would later turn out that he wasn’t the only bird of prey around these parts; there was a mild altercation with a snowy white owl who found him sitting on the tree outside Harry Potter’s bedroom window. 

It was on his first night here; he’d been roosting there in the branches minding his own business, watching Potter pace his room with a scowl on his face and then sit down to scribble on some paper, still scowling. He remembered an argument the lad had with the horsey burd earlier in the day, and boy, he’s got quite the sass, doesn’t he? Meanwhile, the owl had sat in her cage. Then, with no triggering stimulus whatsoever on his part, she turned her head a full one hundred and eighty degrees and pierced him with those big golden eyes. 

_I don’t like you,_ those eyes declared.

Unimpressed, he stared right back with green eyes he knew glowed in the dark, stone cold. The owl ruffled her feathers in displeasure.

Once the lad rolled up parchment after parchment and tied it to his familiar’s leg, the snowy creature flew away into the horizon. 

And then made a U-turn and swooped in from behind him, intent on clawing his everything to pieces. He met her talons with his own before it cut his neck, and soon feathers and blood were flying everywhere; Potter was lucky to have such a protective familiar by his side. Hell, she may even go as far as to risk her life for him, and that was saying something, ‘cause snowy owls are quite the proud creatures. Not very good fighters, though. Scotland fended her off a bit more roughly than he should (trying not to hurt someone in a fight is oxymoronic, really), so they’re not on the best of terms now.

And so ends the long-winded story of how the Scottish personification got to be here, on a fine Wednesday evening in Privet Drive.

Everything had been quite run of the mill. Eagle eyes trained on Harry Potter, who was hiding in some dying hydrangea bush listening to the telly news. Funny cat lady hobbling by on the street looking quite frustrated. The mismatched couple inside chittering about their son Dudders or Diddykins or whatnot, until now he had not heard the wee brute’s proper name and was starting to wonder if it was one of the many ridiculous ones his parents called him. He certainly never heard it out of the Potter lad’s mouth; he seemed to avoid his cousin, and basically the whole family in general.

From the snippets of conversation he overheard ( _if you could even call it that,_ thought Scotland), Potter didn’t have the best relationship with his foster family. Same went with the rest of the prim little neighborhood.

Scotland hates prim people. They bore him to death. 

In fact, with the late afternoon sun warming up his feathers, the personification was feeling the beginnings of sleep in the corners of his mind. He hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep since arriving here. Once he turns back human, he’s going to have some pretty heavy shadows under his eyes, because he’s been running himself ragged and his stamina says _I ain’t covering for you no more, sink or swim on your own_.

Each blink was becoming increasingly heavy……

**CRACK**

Scotland didn’t make a sound, but his talons lost a proper foothold for the slightest of moments, flapping frantically to regain balance in that short period of weightlessness.

_What the hell?!_

He turned around scanning all areas for any sign of hostile parties. Breaking china rang out of the Dursley living room window, followed by shrieks and bellows that didn’t sound harried enough to imply being attacked. A cat shot out from under a car, almost startling him into transforming back into his human form.

The streets were empty.

That was the sound of Apparition, goddammit! Was the Potter lad in danger?

Said lad was already on his feet, his wand pointed out at the source of the noise.

Scotland barely had time to be relieved at the boy’s good survival instincts before a meaty pair of hands reached out of the open window behind Potter and began to fucking _strangle him._ The lad’s eyes bulged out and grabbed at his uncle’s grip with his free hand, choking out something in response to the fat man’s snarling in his ear, but those skinny arms weren’t doing shit to relieve the pressure.

Alright, Scotland has had his fair share of roughhousing between family and friends alike. And yes, sometimes he played a little too rough. But this wasn’t anything like that, and despite his usual apathy to adolescents, this kind of really pissed him off.

Thus, he felt pretty justified in what came next.

Letting out a piercing cry that rang through the whole street, the copper-feathered eagle spread his magnificent wings and launched right in the direction of the assault on Potter. The duo, shocked still at the sudden sound, gaped dumbly as Scotland threw his wings out, wind resistance slowing the speed of his flight to land talon-first, none too lightly right onto the fat Dursley’s face.

The fat man screamed, letting go of his nephew to grab at the mighty fowl clawing bloody grooves in his face like it was digging for worms in dirt, thick red liquid running down his cheeks and chins to drip on the windowsill. Potter had fallen forwards on his knees in the hydrangea bush, gasping for air. 

Dursley stumbled backwards inside the house, still screaming and cursing, ripping out feathers in handfuls but unable to remove the large bird of prey that was now viciously ripping out receding blond locks in retaliation.

"Villain! Pest! Help me, Petunia!"

The horsey wench hurried over like she was trying to run but act suitably ladylike at the same time, resulting in an awkward speed-shuffling.

"My goodness, what is going on, Vernon- AIEEEEEE!" 

The shrillness of her scream stunned Vernon, opening him up to a peck on his closed right eye with all the force of a hammer.

Horse lady picked up a china doll from the mantelpiece and tossed it right at the large bird assaulting her husband, but missed by a mile. Panicking, she threw decoration after decoration right at the tussling duo, eventually scoring a hit but on her husband's patella.

"ARGH! My knee, my good knee- curse you, foul...fowl! Giving me all you've got, are you? I'll rip you to shreds and roast you with potatoes!"

_Hah! I'd like ta see ye try!_

Unbeknownst to the fat man, Scotland was trying to avoid scratching out his beady little eyes or some similar serious damage; however, the personification was tempted to peck them right out when Vernon Dursley grabbed one of his scaly legs, bending it painfully, and threw him into the air as far away from him as possible.

Righting his balance in mid-air before he hit a wall, Scotland gave a warning screech to the shaken Dursley shakily wiping blood out of his eyes before flying out the window straight to the rooftop, where no one would see him. 

He winced a bit when he landed, hopping on his good leg. Something must have dislocated.

What a surprisingly strong piece of shite; that idiot probably doesn’t realize how close he was to getting the electric chair for accidentally snapping his nephew’s neck. Look at his leg, it was bent all out of shape like Play-Doh.

However, he doesn’t have time to assess the damage now. He wants to see what has become of Harry Potter, so he crawled as stealthily as possible to the edge of the roof, staying at an angle where he couldn’t be seen but had a clear view of the front lawn. The sharp pain jolting up his leg made him falter in his movement, but otherwise, he acted like he came out of the incident wholly uninjured. He’s not going to give Dursley the satisfaction of paying too much attention to the injuries he dealt.

There was a bit of hullabaloo inside the house while wee Potter looked up and down the street for anything out of the ordinary, or for the eagle that saved him.

_“Oh my god,_ Vernon, are you alright? Talk to me!”

There was a low groan in response.

“Vernon...... boy!” The horsey wench barked at Harry through the window, who looked back at his aunt with a sour look on his thin face. 

The wand was already out of sight, sticking a little out of his back pocket. “What?” he answered coldly, hands fisted at his sides. 

His aunt glared furiously at him. Scotland couldn’t see it from here, but it likely was exactly the same one she threw at him the other day. From the corner of his eye, he saw Number 7 glower at their direction from behind her net curtains.

“I have to drive Vernon to the hospital. When we get back, _you_ will be answering to the both of us about what happened here, and you’d better hope your uncle will be alright.” 

The Potter lad grunted in response.

“You will not touch anything or leave the house while we’re gone. And if Dudley comes home before us, you tell him where we went, and _don’t you dare_ try any funny business on him. _Understood?”_

“Yeah.” Potter muttered.

“Good.”

Sounds of shuffling and a few coos of reassurance began to move away from the window. Not long after, the door swung open, the bony woman gently leading Dursley to the car while pressing a cloth to his face. The man groaned in pain as he stumbled to the passenger seat, blood seeping through the fabric. A surge of mean satisfaction went up Scotland’s spine at the sight, as his leg reminded him that it was feeling horrible. 

The woman shot a livid look at her nephew, as if to remind him of all her instructions and that he was in a great deal of trouble, then drove off with her moaning husband in tow. 

Losing interest, Scotland turned his attention to Potter. The lad seemed to be scanning the sky for something.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Potter called, turning in a slow circle. The irritable look he’d been wearing on his face for the past few days was now replaced with wary hope.

Scotland ducked his head.

“If Dumbledore sent you, just give me a sign or something.” The lad tried again, sounding a bit desperate. “Anyone? Padfoot? Professor Lupin? Mr. Weasley?”

Yeah, it would absolutely defeat the purpose of what he’s doing now if he can’t keep an inconspicuous presence. From the looks of it though, Potter’s been cut off with the magical world for quite a while. 

_Curious choice, Dumbledore. Wouldn’t he be better off with wizarding folk?_

Perhaps the countries made a mistake in being so distant from their magical communities……

You see, despite being the exalted site of secrecy and magic that housed one of the most elite schools to ever grace the history of the British Isles, Scotland (as well as his brothers) had kept a light-handed approach when it came to managing his part of the Wizarding World. Which is to say, he left it well enough alone to fester or flourish as it will. Because once everything was said and done, countries were mostly made of Muggles, and Muggles kept marching on with their innovations and politics and globalization while wizardkind stubbornly maintained the lifestyle of the era that had finally sent the last and most stubborn of them into hiding for the sake of themselves and loved ones.

A wee demographic offshoot, evolving in its own way with memorabilia of the times from before they isolated themselves from their non-magical counterparts. On the whole, it actually managed itself pretty well. And finally, one day, if- or _when_ they finally go extinct (Scotland does not have any delusions of grandeur about his immortality, a lesson hard learned from the many close calls he’s had over the years), it would be to fade quietly from the world. Vanished long before their spells have broken down to reveal the remains of their legacy.

Just like country personifications.

Yes, the manifestation of country personifications were rooted in magic. A secret they were all too young and bloodthirsty to understand, till the day the British Empire crushed the oldest surviving countries still alive, India and China, beneath his heel and stripped this knowledge from them along with their dignity and many other things besides.

It is also the reason that witches and wizards were dangerous to countries the way Muggles could never be. 

A magical bond tied the personification's human body to the intrinsic natural energy of the land; feeding the humanoid vessel of countries not dissimilar to a fetus attached to its mother's placenta, or an astronaut floating in limbo with a powerful cord tethering them to their spaceship. Loss of that bond, naturally, means…...not death, exactly. They will return to the earth, back into being not-quite-something, integrating themselves with the identity and soul of the new fleshy vessel that will assume their place.

So you see why being around a bunch of people capable and trained in the magical arts wasn't such a good idea for those who depended on it to simply _exist._ Wizards and witches finding out actual immortals existed would naturally lead them to further questioning _how, why,_ and _when can we do_ **_that_ ** _for ourselves,_ and that would not bode well for any self-preserving personification. Unlike magical creatures who for the most part knew of (or felt in the very core of their bones) the consequences of attempting to harvest whatever the personifications had that they might desire, humans were shameless, and that way of living somehow that got them really far in life despite how unsightly they went about it.

The point being, the Wizarding World wasn't a place the British brothers advertised their human identities often. At least not until Grindelwald showed up, and Voldemort after him. They were the only two with enough clout to start wars in their wake; and where wars started, countries followed. Where wars started, countries _participated._

For better or for worse, even if they end up on the wrong side of history.

A loud crash pulled Scotland back into reality. Potter was red-faced and panting, face twisted in anger, palms curled into tight fists like he was about to punch an invisible opponent. Before him was a trash can rolling on the slight slope of the sidewalk, spilling trash in a semicircle until its handle hit the cement to stop the movement.

A few tense seconds passed. Potter was still glaring a hole at his feet, breathing heavily. Number 7 peeked out of her window panes again, no doubt planning to tattle to her neighbours once the opportunity presents itself.

Without another word, the lad turned on his heel and started down the pavement, kicking some of the spilled rubbish on his way out like it was the one that had ignored his desperate plea for someone to give a sign that he wasn’t alone or abandoned instead of the personification still watching him from the rooftop. 

A few moments later, Scotland followed suit.

* * *

The first stars were twinkling up in the plum-tinted sky by the time they reached Magnolia Road.

Wee Potter sat on the only intact swing left in the park Scotland had woken up in on his first day here, staring moodily at his feet like it contained answers to the many questions doubtless flying around in his brain. He sat there for the longest time with an arm curled around the chain, swaying slightly. 

Meanwhile, Scotland found a neat hiding place in the foliage of a short fir tree, resisting the ever growing urge to nap as the minutes passed by. He put some weight on his bad leg to wake himself up a little.

_Ouch._

It was a good pain, the sort that made him sort of miserable once the adrenaline died down, but the exhilaration, the desperation of fighting he’d experienced from the Dursley bird fight that resulted in this troublesome injury was well worth it. Hell, that was the most action he’d gotten in weeks! Sure, he didn’t like seeing bairns get overpowered by people they couldn’t fight back, but he couldn’t deny there was a thrill with no equal in getting hurt and _laying hurt_ on others in retaliation.

If he really got into it, like really immersed in a fight, he could pretend that he and the world was going at each other. He’d punish the world, make it bleed and groan and _care;_ in turn, the world would give him what he deserved: broken noses, swollen eyes, and if he was lucky, forgetting himself entirely and just being who he was at the moment. Angry. Breathing. Alive.

Like poison being siphoned out of a wound by a military-grade vacuum, so _cathartic,_ his entire world shrinks down to the beat of his heart, the sweat of his brow, his opponents next move, and the immense satisfaction he’d feel when he sees their face twisted in agony, making the most hilarious piggy squeals.

He’s not one to simply pick fights for no reason, but he won’t resist too much before giving into physical violence. He actually hopes that people who annoy him would go for gold and annoy him to the ends of his wits so he can ignore his common sense in good conscience and pummel the shite out of the bawbag. Most days, though, no one really goes that far. 

So he stews in his frustration. At who? Depends on the day, but mostly himself.

Based on what he’s seen around here, Dursley is the most action he’ll be getting in a while. Hence, he was a bit surprised to see a bunch of little thugs, smoking and laughing about making some unknown bairn cry. Scotland disliked teenagers, but if he ever had to choose a type, it would be this lot. 

Meanwhile, Potter had lifted up his head, staring straight at the biggest and meanest looking one. The lad’s grip on the swing tightened, but in Scotland’s expertise of tensed body parts, it wasn’t out of fear, nor anxiety. _Anticipation._

Ah, it must be the cousin. Diddikins or Dudders or whatnot.

“Nice right hook, Big D,” said Teenager-whose-name-Scotland-doesn’t-give-a-fuck-about-One.

“Same time tomorrow?”

“Round at my place, my parents will be out,” said Teenager-whose-name-Scotland-doesn’t-give-a-fuck-about-Two.

“See you then.”

“Bye, Dud!”

“See ya, Big D!”

Scotland shook in his perch, trying not to snigger. Okay, okay. That may be an intended innuendo, or not, but _hell_ that sounds dumb _._ Teenagers, always making good memories for themselves to cringe over once they know better. On an unrelated note, he’s never going to learn the wee brute’s name, is he?

Ah, whatever. He doesn’t give a fuck. No given name’s going to sound as stupid as _Big D._

A creak of the swing signalled Harry getting off his arse and making a beeline straight towards his cousin. Presumably not to deliver his aunt’s message; Scotland could see the itch for a fight in every step of the boy’s hurried gait. He could relate, but still. Best to follow.

Silently, Scotland spread his coppery wings. With a powerful flap he lifted off and soared to a malfunctioning streetlamp just a little ways off from where Potter was currently hailing his cousin. Its sterile white light kept blinking repeatedly, before finally dying out and plunging the spot under it in darkness. Scotland landed on it, taking care not to scrape too loudly against the metal.

Unfortunately, though subtle, the eagle’s movement seemed to have sent a jolt of life back into the lamp post. It lit up with a buzz, flickering on and off once more like a drunken series of morse code. Scotland found that quite annoying. He was going to be seen at this rate. Just as he was about to send a jolt of non-verbal magic to extinguish the tungsten, as suddenly as it started, the lamp died out.

That’s when Scotland felt it.

Cold. Despair. Rot.

_It can’t be._

He heard a passing comment from Dudders about the Potter lad’s nightmares, but he wasn’t listening anymore. There was shouting ringing in his ears.

_I could give you power you cannot even hope to fathom…...just a little something in return……_

He shook his head. There was no time!

He threw himself in the direction of the chill, feeling wings become arms, talons into feet, seeing the world shrink and he grew longer and longer, as if the feathers being pulled back into his skin were adding inches to his height……

Scotland landed in a crouch a good distance from the darkened streetlamp, immediately jumping to his feet and pulling out his wand like a sword. His leg protested the sudden series of motions, making his movements stiff. Disregarding the stress on his stupid needy limb, the tall man turned his head at the two startled lads to his left, frozen in the middle of trying to kill each other, mouths agape.

“GET OUT OF HERE!”

Potter faltered, staring up at him with his fingers twitching towards his pocket, but the big one didn’t need to be told twice. He turned and ran as fast as his thick sausage legs could carry him…...in the completely wrong direction.

“YA DIDDY, NOT THAT WAY!” Scotland bellowed, taking off after him.

All of a sudden, the streetlamps lost power, while the stars and the moon were swallowed by darkness. Thankfully, Scotland didn’t need much light to see in the dark.

A patter of footsteps told him Potter was following right behind him, so the personification very kindly advised him to go find a safe place to hide while he went to save his dumbass cousin and join up with him later.

“OI, BAMPOT! AYE, YOU, POTTER! I SAID GET OUTTA HERE, IT AIN’T SAFE!”

“Who are you? Did Dumbledore send you?”

“Wha- that ain’t important now! Go hide, I’ll find ye later! And you, fat boy, COME BACK HERE! DEMENTORS AHEAD, TURN BACK, TURN BACK!”

Potter muttered a spell under his breath to light his wand that was now held in front of him, ignoring Scotland. So did the Dudders boy; it would seem that fear had made him selectively deaf as well as blind.

“DUDLEY, COME BACK!” screamed Potter, panic lacing his frustrated cry. “YOU’RE RUNNING RIGHT AT IT!” 

He was wasting his breath, but maybe that would slow him down and discourage him from following, so Scotland just focused on not tripping up in the darkness.

Somewhere in the middle of the abyss of pitch that had formed all around them, a hooded figure emerged. They were exactly like Scotland remembered: tattered grey hoods, rotting hands with pieces of flesh clinging to them, and most disturbingly…...a wide, gaping gob. Hollow and smelly. Scotland was close enough to see the waves of suction around that lipless hole, and Dudders was running right into them.

The lad stopped right before running into the arms of the dark creature, drawing a shuddering gasp, finally realizing what was before him. Too late; the Dementor grabbed him by the arms, lowering itself to his large face.

“DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW!” Potter yelled, and Scotland heard him stumble on a crack in the gravel in his haste to come to his cousin’s aid. Good. That’ll keep the stubborn lad out of the way for a bit.

Doing a hobble-sprint through the last bit of distance, Scotland pointed his wand right at the nasty creature. This was close enough. Right, happy thoughts, happy thoughts. He imagined getting to punch it in the face. As expected, a savage satisfaction rolled through him.

_Expecto Patronum!_

…

…

Nothing happened.

Panic rose in his gut. He tried again instantly, verbally this time.

“Expecto patronum!”

A small fart cloud of white whooshed out of his pine wand, but that was it. What the hell…...?! It’s a fantasy of punching a physical manifestation of depression itself! How are his thoughts not happy enough?!

_No surprise there,_ said a snarky voice in his mind that sounded like England. _You’re a mess, haha. Fuck-up._

_Fuck ye,_ Scotland shot right back. Ah, shite. Now he was talking to himself.

Behind him, Potter seemed to be having similar trouble. Dudders was going to lose his soul before either of them got this stupid spell to work, so whatever, screw this happy thoughts shite. Scotland was going to have to resort to the next best thing.

“Close yer eyes.” He ordered, then dashed off to where Dudders was still struggling against the Dementor.

“Huh? What the- what on earth are you doing? Don’t run to them, they’ll suck your soul out!” 

Scotland didn’t answer. In a matter of a few seconds, he’d reached the hapless victim of circumstance and bodily ripped him out of the Dementor’s slimy clutches by his collar. In the same smooth motion, he tucked big, dazed Dudders behind his back and _slammed his palm over the soul-sucking entity’s skull,_ gripping it with calloused fingers so tightly he heard the faint crunch of it’s cranial bone fracturing around his finger pads.

A curse of astonishment came from the Potter lad, undoubtedly wondering if the strange man before him was suicidal.

“Close yer eyes, laddie! I won’t be held responsible if you go blind!”

God, he had better listen.

“And put up a Shielding Charm, you might need it!”

“You want me to close my eyes or shield us? I can’t do both!” snarked Potter, but the slight unsteadiness in his voice betrayed his apprehension.

“Just shield yerself, ya diddy! Yer cousin’s in safe hands.”

Said cousin made a muffled noise where his face was pressed to the small of the tall man’s back, as if trying to object to that statement. Scotland grabbed the large lad by the waistband of his pants and pulled him up higher so more of his own body can take the resulting whiplash from what was about to come next.

Dudders whimpered.

Gusts of wind were beginning to rise around Scotland, swirling at his feet at first but then growing stronger and stronger until it was tossing up dust and leaves all around him like a tornado, faint crackles of lightning running across the currents and setting the flying debris on fire.

Scotland fixed a steady glare on the sight before him, green eyes alight with energy and thunderous like a flash of the Killing Curse. Hairline cracks of acid green appeared on the Dementor’s hood where Scotland’s palm held it at arm’s length, spreading in short bursts across the grey rags and looking positively toxic, thick black smoke rising from where it was splitting the Dementor apart. It must have been excruciating; the beast’s maw was wide open and screeching something awful, scrabbling pathetically at his arm and leaving sizzling claw marks that didn’t even make the personification flinch.

A little bit ahead, a second Dementor floated towards him, long fingernails reaching out. Absolutely smashing, Scotland thought, slightly dizzy with the magic coursing through his every vessel, burning fever hot and radiating green all over. The blast will finish it too.

Between his shoulder blades, he dimly registered a growing wet patch of tears and snot. Ah, Dudders. Please cry for the Dementors and how they will end, for Scotland is the executioner and thus will not.

_Sìth is suaimhneas dhuibh._

A blinding light seared across his eyes, encompassing the two Dementors where the energy travelled across their entire bodies like breaking china before tearing them asunder. They screeched, but though he knew they were not human it was eerily similar, and a lesser man would have dropped to his knees at such a harrowing cry.

An image of Voldemort popped unbidden in his mind and this just isn’t the time-

A sphere of green plasma rapidly spread out, stopped, then just as speedily shrunk in on itself.

And imploded, shattering the Dementors within into a thousand tiny shreds that slowly dissipated to nothingness like ink drips in a bowl of water. Scotland barely managed to cast a Silencing spell in time, occupied as he was keeping the magnitude of the implosion contained with a single arm, where wisps of grey smoke was rising from like the cigarettes he indulged in far too much.

Slowly, the glow left his eyes, and the wind rushing by his ears gradually died down. Burning debris scattered across the ground in a haphazard spiral, Scotland being the eye of the storm, their shivering flames throwing his shadow around with every flicker.

It was over. His right arm dropped limply to his side, numb. 

That’s it then. The Dementors were gone. Such troublesome creatures, and he still needed to find out what they were doing here.

Dudders shifted again against his shoulder.

Scotland unceremoniously tossed him to the side, the lad barely making a sound when he plopped hard on his elbows. Having dumped his meaty burden, tall man swayed unsteadily on his feet, holding his now free arm over his eyes.

The image of Voldemort appeared behind his eyelids once more. Falling forward to his knees with his palms pressed on the ground, leg hurting worse than ever before, Scotland shook his head like a dog as if it would remove the unpleasant memories running rampant in his head.


	3. Give Em’ The Old One Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotland distracted Snape, slinging an arm over his shoulders and drawing him close, trying not to gag at the grease in Potions Master's hair. Among the shadows, Cho Chang slid from the moonlit painted glass window and back to her dorm, mouthing a thanks and wiping at her puffy, wet eyes.
> 
> "Would ye like a Herbology fact?" 
> 
> Snape was arguably more uncomfortable than he was, trying to slink away but unable to break Professor Kirkland's iron clutches. "No. If you'll excuse me-"
> 
> "The straight-grained pine wand always chooses an independent, individual master who may be perceived as a loner, intriguing and perhaps mysterious. Pine wands enjoy being used creatively, and unlike some others, will adapt unprotestingly to new methods and spells." Scotland blurted.
> 
> "......"
> 
> "......"
> 
> "Source, the Douglas-Fir I was chatting with this fine evenin' in the Forbidden Forest. Third pine from the big rock that smells like dog piss."
> 
> "...Let go of me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to say that its ok to tell me what you hate or like about this story :) Or if you don't want to say anything its fine, but hit the kudos button if you liked it, okay? It will mean so much haha

**Chapter 2: Give Em’ The Old One Two**

Harry’s eyes flickered open. Head spinning, he slowly raised his head from his arms and stood, almost stumbling when his muscles proved too tense for sudden movement. _What the heck just happened?_ There were still flashing lights behind his eyes from the explosion with each blink he took.

Righting himself, Harry appraised the area of damage. 

Other than a smattering of small fires all over the ground, a huge burn mark, and the two destitute figures slumped right before said burnt mark, there were no signs that a struggle had occurred- ah, scratch that. The evidence of a struggle were obvious and everywhere. The Dementors were nowhere in sight, and there were no visible reinforcements coming to finish whatever they had come here to do.

Observing that danger was no longer present, he lifted the Shielding Charm, tentatively making his way toward the tall man kneeling on the ground. Dudley was lying on his side next to the stranger, unmoving.

Harry kept his wand alert and at the ready right by his thigh just in case his auburn-haired savior proved himself to have less than noble intentions. He’s never met this man before in his life, and he was too normally dressed compared to the other wizards and witches he knew. Sure, he could have a Muggle-born or half-blood background, but Harry’s had way too many unpleasant surprises today and would prefer to be on his toes for the next one, thank you very much.

Still, he was reluctant to directly point his wand at the stranger that had just saved both him and his cousin, even if he did employ some abnormally destructive power that he had never heard of nor seen, in real life or history books or otherwise. Besides, the man seemed to be having a fit of sorts, the manner of which he was now shaking his head and fisting his hair making the young wizard step carefully around him. He would ask if he was okay, but only after checking on his cousin first. 

He walked towards Dudley, checking for signs of life- no, his soul.

“Hey, Dudley. Oi.” Harry jostled his cousin’s shoulder, doing it even harder when the other boy failed to respond. “You still in there?”

Much to his relief, the vigorous activity roused Dudley back to the land of the living, his beady eyes flickering open and staring blankly ahead. If it were not for the tears and snot running down his wide face, as well as the fat beads of sweat forming on his brow and trickling all the way to his shuddering pulse, Harry might have feared the worst. But as for now, Dudley would be okay. Just in shock.

Harry was in shock too, though he doesn't have the luxury of blue-screening right in the middle of the situation. He just can't stop wondering what those Dementors were doing here- and who was that man who _killed them-_

_Is that even possible?_ Evidently so. _Does Voldemort have something to do with this?_ Maybe.

Alas, it was not to be answered today, much less right now. Because the stranger had stopped his quiet and frightful fits. Both palms on the ground, kneeling and staring at the same spot for a good five seconds with his eyes wide like there was something horrifying only he could see in the gravel.

Then his face went blank. He sat back on his heels. Slowly, his head turned to look at Harry at his five o' clock direction, neck turning at a greater degree than Harry had ever seen a person turn.

_Blimey, that's…… that's disturbing._

For a moment Harry thought he might be looking right through him, but then the stranger’s gaze focused, eyes sharp and alert like the predator he was just before despite his deadpan expression.

Harry didn't like how the shadows cast by the thick auburn hair falling over those frosty irises did nothing to dim their almost fluorescent quality.

The young wizard swallowed but like the Gryffindor he was, made his way to the strange man’s aid. “Hi, er, sir. Is there anything I can do for you?” he tried. The stranger had saved them both, after all. He may as well show a little gratitude. 

"Dinnae worry about me. It's gross." Oh, wow. Okay. From the accent, the young wizard guessed he was Scottish, so at least he knows that much.

The predator’s gaze ran over Harry’s self up and down, scrutinizing him so critically he grew self-conscious of his scruffy appearance, which is just……plain ridiculous to think about in the current situation. 

The teenager crossed his arms over his baggy second-hand shirt and tilted his chin up to meet the eye to eye, searching for a sign that his savior was not to be trusted, but the man remained inscrutable. As if realizing what Harry was trying to do, the man staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on the left one.

“Check yerself for anything serious, I’ll get back to ye later.” The Scotsman jerked his chin at Dudley, lying motionless on his belly and facing away from them. "He dead?"

"What? No! I- I checked." Harry had no idea how to respond to _that_ except answer like the other man just asked about the weather. But the stranger was already shuffling over to Dudley to crouch by the large boy's side without waiting for an answer, putting a pulse to his neck and then trying for a verbal response by calling out his name; and when that didn't work, shaking him. 

As the resurrected street lamps illuminated his face, Harry noticed he looked fairly young. About Sirius’ age, but a little younger. However, and though Harry had never seen an actual Muggle paramedic at work, he knew enough from the moving pictures of Healers from his textbooks that this man knew exactly what he was doing. His movements were seasoned, quick and precise: checking Dudley's breathing, shining a light into each of his pupils with his wand, even grinding a palm into his cousin's chest, probably to see if he'll get a pain response. He did; Dudley whined and grabbed at the strangers arm. 

Seeing his cousin act so pathetically made him feel uncomfortable. Its weird; he'd always thought he would enjoy seeing his oldest bully get taken down a few pegs, but…… not like this. He never wanted Dudley to lose his soul to a joy-draining undead monster, or see him so traumatised from the aftermath. His gaze darted to his cousin's wide face, pale green and shivering like a leaf.

Not wanting to watch the stranger at work anymore, he took his advice and looked himself over, finding nothing but minor cuts and bruises. They were mostly on his left shin, which had taken the brunt of the fall he' gotten chasing after Dudley.

After patting down the large boy for injuries, the stranger dragged him up with his single good arm to lean against his thigh, then cupping a hand with that same arm right under Dudley's mouth. It filled up with clear water, and in a bit his cousin was drinking deeply like the water was bottomless. Some sort of non-verbal Aguamenti spell that kept renewing itself without repeated incantations?

Having thoroughly hydrated Dudley, the stranger took off his leather jacket, a rugged garment lined with fur the shade of molten copper and cool mahogany. He briskly wrapped it around Dudley as if the large boy was doggie dung and he the resentfully responsible owner, then trussed him up in it by tying the sleeves together. 

"Don't throw up on it. You'll be licking it all back up if ye do." He threatened. Dudley croaked and nodded rapidly, whereas Harry stood aside and hoped it was just a scare tactic to keep his jacket untarnished.

As soon as the deed was done the stranger turned and pinned Harry with a questioning look, motioning for him to come closer. He did.

"Are ye all right?" asked the stranger. He gestured vaguely to his own head in that roiling wrist motion and lifting both brows to convey what nature of 'okay'.

"Er- yeah, sure." Harry replied. He doesn't feel quite traumatized. Yet.

"Any injuries?"

"Nothing much, really. But sir, do you need me to get some help for you, or-"

"Nah, Ah can handle mah own barbequed limbs. Come closer."

Harry shuffled forward on his knees.

"Closer."

He shuffled a bit more.

" _Closer._ Do I look like I bite?"

"Er- um, no," _Yes. You do._ "but I just don't see the point of- gah! What was that for?!"

Harry scrambled away from the stranger with his wand in hand, prepared to avoid another swat to the head or something worse. He tensed himself for a fight, but it turned out to be a wasted effort.

The Scotsman's previous light mood seemed to have evaporated to leave a scolding in place. "Listen here, laddie. If someone tells ye to run away from danger, you fu- you effin' follow their orders, not run straight to the trouble. You remember trying to be a hero back there?"

Harry raised an eyebrow, sarcasm rolling off his words in waves. "Sure, if you can't recall. Ow!"

The stranger had reached over really fast and swatted his head again.

"Good! So it's still fresh in your mind." He pointed a finger in right in Harry's face, making him back up a little. "Don't ye pull stunts like this anymore. Ye gotta know when the situation is out of yer hands, or else you'll end up making everything worse when all ye had to do was hold back and let someone else handle it. D'ye understand?" Going off his stern tone, this was a yes or no question whose only correct answer was yes.

Harry rubbed his the back of his noggin, mouth scowling in disagreement.

This man doesn't know anything. If Harry had waited around for other people to help him, or for the adults to solve all the awful messes that's been happening to him since stepping foot in the Wizarding World, he probably wouldn't even be standing here right now. His godfather, convicted for a crime he didn't commit, would be an empty shell with no life nor substance; Buckbeak's head would be displayed on a plaque on the Malfoys' swanky wall; Ginny would be gone forever, and Voldemort would still be plastered to the back of a Hogwarts professor's skull!

_And Cedric might not have been murdered,_ whispered a traitorous little voice in his mind. _Alone in a graveyard, far from family and friends, with some upstart who wanted to steal his girlfriend and Triwizard Cup-_

No. No. It was because he was too naive. He failed to see the traitor hiding in plain sight, he went along with his professors' crackpot decision to initiate him as the second Hogwarts champion. He'd always had to figure out his problems on his own, and it was almost always because the adults around him meant him harm or fell short.

He really doesn't mean it as harsh as it sounds, but the young wizard is currently a raging ball of teenage hormones, adrenaline from the Dementor attack and an acute exacerbation of stress. He's angry at every single adult in his life that has made life so much harder than a normal teenager's ought to be, and then leaving him with nothing when he's gotten this deep. 

All the feelings of injustice and abandonment and guilt that had been building up for the past four weeks bubbled up to the surface, threatening to blow.

"You don't know anything." Harry grit out, trying to keep his voice at a normal volume. It didn't go unnoticed.

The strange man's already stern-looking face, if possible, turned even colder. Harry was beginning to wonder if he had to dodge a possible third swipe at his skull, but then noticed his grouchy savior’s gaze drift up. He thought he saw a flash of recognition cross the stranger’s face, but it dissipated as soon as it appeared.

“Who are ye, and what d’ye want?” the stranger said none too gently, staggering to his feet as his hands moved to his pocket. He blanched a little at the sudden change in altitude, but through pure force of will, remained upright.

Harry immediately got to his feet as well, seeing as this new potential threat was right behind him. He whipped around to see Mrs. Figg shuffling out of the darkness, knobbly fingers crooked with arthritis clutching her purse like a weapon. Despite himself, relief swept over his entire body at the sight of a familiar face, even if it was an unhelpful one. On reflex, he made to hide his wand behind his back.

“Good evening, Mrs.Figg.” he greeted, hoping it was obvious from his tone that the elderly cat lady was a harmless acquaintance of his. Following her gaze, he gestured to the stranger who looked a lot like a car ran over the right side of his body and parked on him only to burst into flames. “This is-”

“Don’t put your wand away, boy!” interrupted Mrs. Figg sharply. “Who knows if there’s more Dementors around?”

Another shocking discovery. No rest for Harry, oh no, god forbid.

The young wizard’s jaw dropped. Mrs. Figg, the batty but caring old woman whose home he’s been sent to for unpleasant babysitting for as long as he could remember; who adores her cats more than she does people; who eats cabbage for supper everyday, duller than ditchwater? _She_ knows about _Dementors?_

Her dark eyes, ringed with pale blue from high blood cholesterol, narrowed at the ragged Scotsman Harry was still gesturing at. Mrs. Figg hurriedly flapped a bony hand at harry, thin shawl flying with the movement. “Come here away from this stranger, boy, quickly! Dumbledore didn’t send him; there’s been no notice of a new guard around Privet Drive for you!”

Harry backed away from him. After a moment’s consideration, he stepped closer to Mrs. Figg, earlier suspicion of the stranger back with a vengeance. For some reason, his instincts told him that the old woman could be trusted, and from everything crazy that happened today, her being aware of the wizarding world and secretly keeping watch over him kind of made sense. At least he hoped so. If Mrs. Figg meant him harm, she would have done it long ago, right?

Still, he couldn’t help the question that came out of his mouth. “Mrs. Figg, you know Professor Dumbledore? Then why didn’t you ever……”

“Tell you? I’m sorry, Harry dear, but that’s a long story and not advisable to share in present company.” She shot the auburn-haired man a distrustful look.

The Scotsman huffed.

“Excuse me. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve-” and here he remained stone-faced, gesturing to himself with a sarcastic flick of his fingers- “went out of my way to get these lads out of trouble. _Surely_ it’s a much more pressing question as to what kind of guard duty ye were doing when they were being chased by Dementors down the street?”

Mrs. Figg blustered. “That’s none of your business. I’ll thank you for your service on behalf of The Or- I mean, on Dumbledore’s behalf, but we can’t trust any old Tom, Dick or Harry that jumps out of the blue nowadays.” She stood to her fullest height, looking very much like she was trying to maintain a brave face. “Especially those who can do what you did to those horrid creatures. I’m sure you can understand that.” 

Having said her piece, the old woman turned to Harry, flyaway gray hair bouncing with the movement. “Come on, boy! Pick up your cousin and let’s go back, it’s not safe to dally around here! Who knows if there’s more of them about…...”

She scuttled over to Dudley, roughly pulling his arm up with her bony ones. "Get up, you useless sack of potatoes, up!" Realizing the futile endeavor it was when she felt the weight of Dudley's hammy fists, Mrs. Figg went for shaking him out of his catatonic state. 

"Oh, it's no use." She dropped his blonde head back on the ground, mouth pinched at the unmoving burden at her feet. "You'll have to carry him, Harry. Do hurry now, dear, it really isn't safe here."

Harry blinked. Dragging Dudley all the back to Number 4 was no simple task, his cousin being big for his age and currently plenty unwilling to walk, even at the threat of more Dementors. Nevertheless, sticking around here would only put them at more risk. 

Steeling himself, Harry moved forward and slung his cousin's meaty arm over his shoulders, then attempted to heave him up with a grunt he hoped helped add an extra burst of strength to the sudden exertion of his skinny body.

"Here, move aside." 

Before he knew what was happening, Dudley was being pulled off of himself, the loss of the weight making him feel like his bones were previously compressed and was now slowly stretching back to their original length. A tilt of his head revealed the tall Scotsman slightly bent over, hoisting his cousin over his left shoulder in a single motion like it was effortless. His slightly twisted right leg looked like it was tolerating the added weight, but his right arm remained limp and charred. 

Despite how that should have aggravated his wounds, the stranger was stoic as ever when he turned to the protesting Mrs. Figgs and Harry.

"I'll carry him for ye. Lead the way."

"Didn't we just explain to you why we can't afford to trust random strangers!? Release the lump at once, thug!" Mrs. Figg declared, raising her purse threateningly.

"I swear I ain't affiliated with Voldemort, aight? Trust me, Potter would be long dead if I were." Realizing how that sounded, the Scotsman changed tacks, trying to soften up his expression. 

It didn't work very well, but he did round off the edges of his tone. "Alright, look. I think we got off the wrong foot here." With great effort (the stranger had to swing his shoulder a bit to get it moving) he raised his savaged arm in a handshake. "Alistair Kirkland. I believe what you've been saying about Voldemort's return."

"Wait, really?" Harry gave him an appraising look. With all that garbage the Daily Prophet were spewing about him being a delusional attention-seeking liar, he was genuinely surprised that someone who barely knew him would take him at his word. The stranger's eyes were awfully earnest now. Without apprehension-inducing expressions on his face, the man was looking a bit familiar in a weird sort of way…... _oh my god I see it_.

Harry's eyes widened. "You're the eagle who attacked my uncle!"

"...Aye. My Animagus form." Kirkland lowered his snubbed hand, but Harry's mind was racing too fast to feel guilty.

The resemblance was uncanny, Harry couldn't believe he hadn't noticed until now. "Were you protecting me this whole time?"

"No. Just started a few days ago, when I passed by and noticed yer house was pretty lacking in safety measures. For a lad ol' Voldy has a vendetta with, I couldnae let it be with a clear conscience."

Mrs. Figg inhaled sharply at the blatant bastardization of the feared Dark Lord's name. Harry didn't blame her. Voldemort has made his name into a whisper of death itself, and to mock it so…... No respectful Death Eater dared speak of their master so impudently, which isn't surprising because Harry knows from personal experience that the villain has killed for far less.

"I think...we can accept his help, for now." Harry turned to the old lady. "He did save me twice today."

She pursed her lips, but did not argue any further. "Oh, blast it. Fine! But he walks ahead of us." She turned on her heel, marching forwards at surprising speed. "Let's get to it. Chop chop!"

* * *

The whole journey back to the Dursley house, Mrs. Figg ensured Scotland maintained a careful distance between her and Harry, who was walking by her side behind he and Dudley both. If he were a normal human or wizard, he wouldn't be able to hear whatever she was muttering in Potter's ear. 

Fortunately for him, he wasn't normal at all. A simple non-verbal hearing enhancer charm should do the trick.

_A squib, I see. Hmm, aye, summat 'bout some irresponsible bawbag Mundungus Fletcher…...what is going on with the Ministry? Perhaps this is all connected to the Dementor attack more closely than I thought…...oh, Dumbledore wanted to prevent Harry from using underage magic._

Goddamn, it seems the situation in the wizarding world is stickier than he first assumed.

The old lady, smelling of cats, whispered something to Potter. Scotland strained to hear…...

**CRACK**

"AAAAAA SON OF A MOTHERFU-" A litany of much fouler cursed words followed, tears streaming down his eyes.

Thanks to his spell, the unholy sound of Apparition rang like a wild shotgun straight into his ear to blast his eardrums wide open. Literally, Scotland was fucking hearing zilch in his left ear now, and ringing in the other. He roughly wiped his eyes clean on Dudder’s leather jacket. This is not the sort of pain he appreciates.

And he let the culprit know it. Coincidentally, the suspicious old bat had the exact same idea. Jogging over to the trio, he read their lips.

“S’up, Figgy?” A bedraggled man with the face of a droopy dog and cigarette burns in his coat greeted cheerily, accidentally blowing alcoholic breath in the aforementioned woman’s face. He was swinging a silvery Invisibility Cloak over one shoulder, which had cigarette holes here and there in the fabric as well. “What ‘appened to staying undercover?” He glanced over at the approaching personification, stupidly lackadaisical for being caught skiving off on the job. “And whose dis bloke, eh, he got blood comin’ outta his ear-”

“Mundungus Fletcher! I’ll give you _undercover!”_ shrieked Mrs. Figg. “ _Dementors,_ you useless, skiving sneak thief!”

“What?! Here? Ouch, ouch! Geroff me, you beasts!”

Scotland, at this point unable to decipher anything after _mimblewimble_ _Fletcher_ from Mrs. Figg _,_ went after the droopy-faced sneak with more gusto than before.

"Watch where yer Apparating, shit-fer-brains!" He aimed a kick at the sucker's backside, which Fletcher dodged clumsily and ended up taking a good hard faceful of the old lady’s purse. She was yelling something, whacking the stupid bawbag again and again while he ineffectively attempted to fend her off; Scotland was also yelling something, getting a couple good swings in by flinging about Dudder’s heavy sausage legs not unlike a spiked ball on a chain. 

Oooh, the big lad made for a surprisingly decent melee weapon.

Wish he'd thought of that back in the good old days…...ach, no time like the present.

Potter wisely did not interfere.

* * *

Not long after, the mismatched group turned into Privet Drive.

“I’ll take you to the door,” Mrs. Figg said to Potter, “but that’s about as far as I’ll go. Oh dear me, what a catastrophe…...and Dumbledore instructed to keep you from doing magic at all costs as well……no use crying over spilt potion, I suppose.”

"Why so?” asked Scotland, catching enough bits and pieces of the old lady’s lip movement to guess most of her fretting.

“Oh, never you mind.” retorted Figg, but not as hostile as before. They were approaching the doorstep of Number Four, the little brass number shining proudly from where it was drilled into the postbox. “Take care now, Harry dear. I have to return to my house and await further instructions…...don’t leave the house, you hear me? Someone will be in touch with you soon.”

Potter started forwards, reaching for Figg. “Hold on, I’ve still got so much to ask you-”

“I’m sorry, Harry. Good night.” And before the lad could utter another word, she trotted off into the darkness, leaving Scotland and the crestfallen lad right in front of the lawn in awkward silence. 

Though the personification couldn’t care less. He’s tired, injured, confused, and the buzz from using a high-intensity destruction spell on something that could walk the earth longer than he could was slowly wearing off and leaving him to suffer the deeply uncomfortable aftereffects. Readjusting Dudders on his shoulder, he made his way to the front lawn.

“Wait, you’re coming in with me?” the lad asked in shock.

“Yeah, well, I want a drink.”

“Oh, right.”

The loneliest frown alighted on Potter's young face. Such a miserable look for someone only…...fourteen? Fifteen? Still a baby, for all that counts.

Shite. Stupid bairns.

“......And to make sure yer relatives aren’t too hard on ye. I’m only staying until mah’ glass is empty, though.” 

A pause. 

“So get a big one.”

“Oh, um. Thanks.”

“Hm.”

* * *

_The next morning_

“Hellair? HeLlaiR? Yer there, Ireland?” Scotland hollered into the big black receiver. The static was making it quite difficult to make out the sleepy voice on the other side; he’d been repeating himself twice now, with increasing volume.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear ye!” A loud yawn made its way past the crackling line. “Wot the dickens, Scotland? It’s six in the morning! And where have you been the past couple’a days?

“Doing stuff.”

A miserably long groan came from the other side, as well as a creak of bedsprings as his brother rolled out of bed. “You get me outta bed before eight o’ clock, you gotta do better than that.”

“Ach, it’s nothing much…... I, uh, I’m in England right now, actually.”

Silence.

“In a cell.”

“Okay…? What did you do?”

“Taught a bawbag a lesson last night. Oughta’ been paid for my services.” That made Ireland chuckle. 

Scotland smiled on the inside. It’s nice to hear him happy, even just a wee bit.

“Why aren’t you asking England instead? He the one putting you in a fix?”

“Don’t be daft, not more than the usual. By the way, I’d rather he dinnae know about this; you know what he’s like. Can ye come over by the Avon And Somerset Constabulary and bail me out?”

“Ya know I’m like three hundred and seventy miles away from you, right? Give or take.”

“No one else is answering mah calls. So are ye coming or not?”

An exaggerated groan came from the other side of the line, making Scotland roll his eyes.

“Oh, very well, since ya begged so sweetly. But on one condition.” The lethargic voice snapped to life in a matter of seconds. Scotland narrowed his eyes warily, staring at the fading paint on the station’s telephone.

“Name it.”

“Ya tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“Fuck no.”

“So be it then." Ireland harrumphed. "Break out yerself.”

“Fine by me.” 

“What if I tattle on you?” Ireland’s voice was more thoughtful than sly.

“Wales is too laid back ta care and Northie respects my privacy.”

“......You’ve forgotten England.” 

“No I haven’t.” Scotland drawled, leaning on the phone booth and earning himself a stink eye from the officer on watch duty. He ignored them. “And I know yer won’t really talk to Northie either.”

Silence reigned. Scotland closed his eyes, the shadows beneath them aching. 

He could almost see the ice of their pleasant banter shattering from his words, plunging them both in dark, freezing waters.

He let the air-conditioned oxygen fill his lungs deeply and his head roll to the side against the booth, cradling the receiver to his ear.

“How much longer are ye going to be angry, Ireland?” he asked softly. "We miss you."

_More than I can say._

Crackles filled the sharp inhale his brother took. 

“As long as they deserve.”

“You’ll be waiting forever.”

“I ain’t losing nothing.”

“I hope yer hearing how ironic that sentence is.”

“WHO ARE YA TO TALK, BASTARD?!” the bellow was sudden and boomed straight into Scotland’s sore eardrum, which had mostly regenerated by morning along with the rest of his injuries. He winced a little, not entirely from the sudden pain. 

Making Ireland mad wasn’t in his best interests right now, but his own old wounds were just torn open not long ago and thus the urge to meddle in his brother’s similar ones was nigh irresistible.

“...easy there. I just don’t want you to regret anything.”

Ireland snorted into the receiver as if Scotland had said something amusing. “Very magnanimous of ya. Welp, just fer yer info, I regret this. Good luck on getting out.”

“Okay, that’s fair. See y-” He heard the click before he finished. 

Sighing through his nose, Scotland put the receiver back, his brother’s cold words still ringing inside of his head. Another mess he’s got to make up for when he gets out of jail.

He flexed the fingers on his right hand a little as he was marched back to his cell, glancing at the little box of his belongings being carried away with a bunch of others into a different room from behind the counter. The elaborately carved pine stick sticking out from the side of the box seemed to glance back at him in turn.

…...Maybe later. He sorely needs a nap right now.

* * *

There was a story Scotland once heard before, one of many that hid in the recesses of his mind until certain harrowing situations sent him into a state of mind where he’d run every decision he’s made through his psyche again and again and _alright, okay, one more time_ like a broken tape spilling black reel, wondering where he’d gone wrong. 

Only a bairn a wee bit too tall for his age he was back then; living on a warship that sailed through his hazy memories, on an ocean of clouds and dreams that would never stop rocking even during the calmest of weather. 

On his many sleepless nights, sitting next to a man streaked in blue under the moonlight, he was regaled with stories of the Seven Seas and Seven Mountains, and sworn to his heart and soul that he would forever carry them with him down the currents of time.

Sworn never to forget his dearest friend from the cold, encompassing abyss of seawater that didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything. Long after the sailor, his children, his grandchildren and great-grandchildren’s graves have turned to dust, they will live on in the legends that now grew ever paler in the mind of the auburn-haired man who has forgotten the name he bore back in those ancient times.

_There was once an unbreakable shield a hawker peddled on the streets. He waxed poetic of it being made of the hardest material in the world, and naught could ever pierce it._

As he sat cross legged on the deck nibbling a wet rations with sour maggots writhing in them, the child with eyes of frosty oceans thought the hawker must not have been very clever, or is very desperate, or both, because he was also yelling up and down the marketplace about selling a spear that could penetrate anything under the sun. It surely came as no surprise to him that a beggar on the street mocked the foolish hawker:

_“Take your spear and run it through your shield! Then we shall see the truth of your arrogant claims!”_

The hawker, humiliated, merely left the market without heeding the suggestion. The dilemma of which was stronger; the shield or the spear? Young Scotland and the market-goers of the story never got to know. 

It pissed him off to no end that the man didn’t try it; one weapon or the other would have survived and he could have sold it with the outcome reinforcing the lie. How very stupid.

But later that very same night, tossing and turning in another bout of insomnia, he decided to humor the claims of the hawker of his bedtime story and assume both claims were true. 

What then? Which would win, when the unstoppable goes against the immovable? Has he ever seen anything in his already very long life that could answer this? 

Will he, tough as sea-hewn cliffs and evergreen groves, survive going against his youngest brother who grew stronger, cleverer and greedier as the years went by? Or will the frosty-eyed bairn perish, while his kin absorbed the pieces like the opportunistic, cannibalistic bastard he is?

The stars he slept under reflected itself in his questioning eyes for a good part of that night. 

They had no answers. Like the ocean, they do not give a damn about anyone or anything. Why would a bairn, so wee, so blue, so fearful of death despite his daytime bravado, be an exception? 

There is a conclusion to be drawn from this; a thought that was more of a feeling floating in the cosmos of his grey matter. 

Wizards and witches can and will put countries in mortal danger. That’s the shield of the story, a cold hard fact that cannot be pierced.

Countries do not leave their people to fend alone in times of war. That is the spear unstoppable that went far beyond simple duty to one’s countrymen.

In Scotland’s case, the spear won out, just like England’s conquest of him eventually did.

He’s never truly forgiven him for it.

…….

Nor himself for what he did in return.

_Return…_

_Return…_

_Return…_

"...to the land of the living, Mr. Kirkland. You got bailed." An officer with an unpleasant droning voice not unlike a dead chicken was jangling his ring of keys around while jostling them inside the keyhole to make a real racket. In moments the cell door was pulled aside, the officer’s shadow rising ominously over the personification’s prone body in the corner of the cell.

Scotland didn't move from his bunk where he lay face up, hand over his eyes to protect it from the glare of the station lighting. He could hear its monotonous buzzing and occasional flicker, casting his cell in a sterile white light.

The officer tapped his foot on the cement floor once, twice. “Hop to it man, we haven’t got all day.”

"Who they?" The personification muttered, voice dry like sandpaper. "Some ginger who looks like his maw never fed him in his entire life?"

"I mean, if you put your two visitors together, then yeah."

Scotland sat up and wiped the crust out of his eyes.

"Well, that's a surprise." So Ireland came after all. "Get mah stuff ready, officer. My brother can't be kept away from his country too long."

"......sure, whatever you say."

* * *

_A few minutes later……._

"Who the hell are you clowns?"

Scotland furrowed his dark brows at the two strangely dressed men in front of him, the ginger one balding and taken aback from his abruptness and most decidedly _not_ his brother. 

The other man, though bearing mousy brown hair, was definitely gaunt enough to resemble Ireland _if_ it weren’t for the genial, tired aura he wore like he was aged far beyond his years. Ireland had the hair and spirit of fire and no one ever forgot it. This, this is a limp cabbage.

And he stank of lycanthrope to boot.

Scotland reached in his box of belongings cradled in the crook of his left arm, deciding he needed a good smoke. He's been itching for one since setting foot in Little Whinging, and the cravings had gotten so bad last night he might have had way less patience for Dursley's buffoonery when the owls were swooping in and out to throw letters at Potter. He might have crushed the big glass of Chardonnay Potter poured for him into dust. And lost his temper.

There's no smokes in the box. Scotland grit his teeth.

The tired one stepped forward, looking far more apologetic than Scotland deserved. “Mr. Kirkland, I…..it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Remus Lupin, and this here is my associate Arthur Weasley.” 

He held out a handshake, a motion Weasley mimicked despite being unimpressed with being called a clown. 

Scotland half-heartedly tapped both hands with his free palm instead of shaking them properly, sticking his hand in his pocket right after. 

There was no need for them to shoot him looks of sympathy at his healing arm. Disgusting.

On the other hand, the lack of surprise must mean they assumed he used magic to patch it up, which will be handy if he gets involved with more wizards from his this point on.

“Harry mentioned how you helped him out of a certain bit of trouble last night. I personally cannot thank you enough-”

“Ach, don’t mention it.” Scotland hurriedly waved away the heartfelt thanks by flapping his hand at Lupin, as if trying to fan the positivity toward him back at the very sincere man. “You two here on behalf on Dumbledore?”

“Ah, yes. If you don’t mind, let’s find a private place to talk, shall we?”

Scotland raised an eyebrow. "But what does the great Dumbledore have to say to a nobody like me?"

"Well, to find out who you really are, for one." Scotland turned to the redhead.

Weasley adjusted his glasses, finally breaking his silence.

"We seem to be unable to find any records of an Alistair Kirkland matching your description in the Ministry registers. Professor Dumbledore thought it was…...if i am to quote him directly, curious, especially for someone whom none of us have seen or heard of hanging around Harry’s home. Even during the war-"

He was interrupted by a bark of mirthless laughter from Scotland. 

"Don't look at me like that, alright, it's nothing shady." The personification raised both hands in mock surrender.

"Ah was an orphan born and homeschooled in the rural Highlands. Was taught magic by a travelling witch during my formative years...the war barely touched the shores of my village." He flashed them a small 'life be like that sometimes, eh?' smile like the whole thing was just a mild inconvenience. 

The two men before him shared a look between each other.

"Fancy folks in the Ministry let me slip through the bureaucracy, I suppose."

"If it's true, then I am sorry you met with such misfortune." Lupin smiled at him, apologetic yet again for the insinuation. "You must forgive my directness, Mr. Kirkland, but it really is best if we continue somewhere else."

Guess this was happening after all.

Scotland gave them both a long, assessing look. He liked the way they both tensed at the sudden coldness of his eyes, so much like a cruel ocean hiding an eldritch abyss. Did Figg or Potter tell them what he did?

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Weasley's hand twitch ever so slightly at his coat pocket. Lupin's remained firmly clasped behind him. If they were gunning for a fight…...oh, they had no idea what they were in for. There's no proof they came from Dumbledore themself, but being caught by Death Eaters isn't such a bad idea either. Both is notable progress.

Besides, there is very little in the Wizarding World Scotland couldn't fight his way out of. Maybe that's why he's less afraid of wizards than he ought to be.

He blinked, letting nonchalance take over his body language and setting the two men before him at less unease. "Ach, if ye insist," he shrugged, "but if this 'private' place happens to be a pub, you're buying drinks, aye?"

Weasley wrinkled his face at him in disbelief whereas Lupin gave a light chuckle. "Whatever it takes to make the conversation smoother."

Scotland grinned. "Good lad."

* * *

"......and then they had me drink Veritaserum, which, yer see, I couldnae refuse 'cause I needed them to trust me."

England gaped, having been told half the important details, a lot of unnecessary scene descriptions and none of the angst.

"My God! And you just drank it?!"

Scotland scowled. "Lemme finish, aight? Okay, so here Ah was with the damn mug in mah hand, and them clowns looking at me like they were gonna stuff it down my throat themselves if I dinnae start drinking soon."

He leaned forward. "But I always keep some antidote on mah person, and it just so happened I had a bezoar. Please, brother." The older man held out a palm to shush England. "I know just as well as ye do that it ain't particularly effective with Veritaserum. But it was good enough, and made the whole thing more believable."

"So how'd you swallow it without them noticing?" England demanded.

"Classic sleight of hand, of course. Misdirection on one side," he snapped his fingers on his right hand, acid green sparks flying, "magic in the other." He levitated the knife he was using to eat pie with his left. Scotland gave a small grin while his youngest brother just stared at him in disbelief. 

"You pulled a David Copperfield right under their noses? Right across the table?"

"Nah, I blew up a table behind them (nonverbal _Bombarda Minimus,_ a little variation of my own) and swallowed the rock when we were all shielding ourselves from the shockwave." He paused. "And the smoke from the fire." Pause. "There were a lot of screaming patrons too."

England shot him a look, then turned away and sighed. "That does seem more your style."

"And thus they trust me now. Somewhat. So I got to correspond with Dumbledore later on, asked him if I could join his little club to kill Voldemort. Hell, if he got someone like that nincompoop Fletcher watching Potter, there's no reason I can't too."

"So what did he say?"

Scotland leaned back in the chair, thoughtfully chewing on his fourth slice of pie while he stabbed the rest with his knife to get another piece.

"Nothing worth mentioning now…...but its promising." Scotland swallowed his mouthful of savoury pastry. "I've got an interview later tonight with the old boy himself, at any rate."

  
"You really have your mind made up, don't you." said England tiredly, putting his face in his hands and kneading them like bread dough. "You're not going. This is a really silly idea and I can't believe I've entertained you for this long." 

_Patience, Scotland. Patience. He just has to see what he's got to gain from this._

"Not so fast, England. Here's the deal." He leaned forward, all business-like. "You're feeling it, aren't you. The shift in the winds." He cocked his head to the side. "The rising death counts. Rushed marriages. Missing parents, dead children, heinous crimes on both sides being committed in the name of their arrogant overlord and he big damn hero fighting him. Voldemort is perfectly capable of bringing about all this, and you'll be the one to bear the worst of it."

Scotland leaned back, putting a show of turning his head to the side in grudging acknowledgement. "You are the entire UK, after all. I'm sure you want someone you can trust to keep an eye on things in the Wizarding World, and who better than me?" He smiled, resisting just in time from calling himself the best wizard among the five of them. 

England looked up from his hands. He appeared unconvinced, but appealing to his pathological need to keep his matters under control was definitely the right move. 

"...But you got hurt last time. Trying to kill Voldemort for me."

Oh. Shite. What is England playing at here? Does he-is he feeling guil- no, no no no. That's ridiculous, it wouldn't be characteristic of the powerful, ruthless conqueror he knows, who rips out the spines of his conquests and spits on their face when they already prostrating themselves before him.

Besides, Scotland wasn't actually after Voldemort to save his brother specifically, not back then.

"Er......" Scotland is still not getting where this is going. He's shit at mind games. "Well, ye know, I'm more careful than Ah used to be (a big fat lie)......and it would suck to see you, um, get hospitalized again from a secret magic war, so." He shrugged and covered his mouth, his next words sounding muffled, eyes slightly wide in mortification at how badly he was bungling this. "Ye know."

England coughed and looked plenty mortified at his elder brother's sappy words as well. However, the Scotsman did not predict what he said next.

"Don't pretend to care so much, you bloody fool." But his lime green eyes were warm, the sort the elder brother remembered him having when he snuggled in Britannia's huge arms to sleep in when he thought the rest of his siblings had long hit the hay. Scotland, sleepless as usual, noted how England clung to his mother's bosom despite shifting around in deep slumber, as if afraid she would pry him off and make him sleep on his own like his auburn-haired brother often (unsuccessfully) forced him to do.

England didn't know it yet back then, but he was sensing his mother's death. The Scottish bairn thought it would be wiser to wean his youngest kin off such a close attachment so it'll hurt less when she finally leaves. Celt taught him to separate skin from flesh with all sorts of techniques, showing him how what was once so close could be cleaved apart with so little mess. The lesson here is that it's easy to face death once you don't care, and the wee Scottish bairn spent a very long time telling himself losing Celt was all fine and bonnie when he realized the man was dying. It worked; he didn't cry at all when he watched his father's powerful back as he walked into the ocean, further and further ahead to the pink, lavender and golden horizon, until his long flaming hair was lost in the water. Not a single tear, as the burly man yelled at him to be strong, voice cracking at the last syllable of his gruff farewell.

Not even when it occurred to him that Celt never turned back to see his son one last time because he might have been crying too.

He could only imagine how much England sobbed when Britannia finally faded off the earth, leaving her wee clingy child in her place, his siblings spread out and often fighting with each other. Maybe that's England's Freudian excuse for always being very particular about losing things- you should have seen him make such a fuss when his colonies left him one by one.

England sighed and shook his head like a tired old horse. "You're making a lot of sense for once, Scotland, so I guess you really are more careful than you used to be, hmm? Perhaps I can truly trust you to be my spy on the inside."

"......Thanks for yer trust. I'm going to go get ready; just lock the door for me when you leave and don't forget to drop the boy off at his maw's house. The keys are on the hook, and- where's that pen and paper- I'll just write her address right here-"

Scotland was interrupted by a sudden squeeze from England. Rooted to the spot in shock at the sudden show of affection, he gripped the Englishman's shoulders to push him away but stopped himself when his younger brother shifted and whispered in his ear. "You'd better come back, you hear me?" If possible, he gripped Scotland even tighter, digging his fingers into the muscle so hard it trembled. "Ma's not around to give me any more brothers, so come back. Please."


	4. Joining A Club Where Everyone Are Pals Except You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dissociating at a gathering is something all introverts have done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No matter how many times I reread this piece it doesn't flow well. What do you guys think? All kudos and reviews are deeply appreciated!

**Chapter 3: Joining A Club Where Everyone Are Pals Except You**

Scotland snapped his fingers. 

A muffled slam rang from somewhere upstairs. Sounds of stuff being knocked over, thumps and screeches of wood whacking on wood approached closer and closer to where the brothers turned ominously to stare at the entrance. With a final _bam!_ the door swung open, a stout broomstick shooting into room right at Scotland’s head with enough horsepower to impale the immortal and exit right through. 

Scotland grabbed the hilt aimed straight for his eye, looking bored, as if this sudden peril was just another Tuesday for him. However, to his great chagrin and England's great amusement......

England burst out laughing when Newton's First Law had the mini radio strapped to the broom slide violently across the shaft and smack his elder brother right on the kisser with a solid _thwack_.

"Ouch."

He didn't stop cackling until Scotland swiped the filthy bristles across England's open gob, making him shriek and spit all over the floor. " _What the fuck_ , Scotland- Plah! _Blearrrghh_! You disgusting mange-infested bilge-drinking leprous ogre bitch! You used this to sweep the porch, didn't you? _Didn't you?_

Shrugging off the injury like his brother wasn't hacking blobs of spit all over his home, the Scotsman shifted his broom to wield it with both hands, smoothing a palm over the ebony wood to feel up bumps and nicks where branches once sprouted from.

The enchanted sweeper bore the marks of a handsome work of art: intricate carvings in ancient Celtic runes and elegant swirls covered the entire broomstick, comprising of painstakingly preserved legends imparted to Scotland by figures faceless when recalled. Dark leather twine wound around key points on the shaft to serve as a handhold and secure rough, crooked tail bristles. Glossy grains the color of ale and oaken barrels streaked the wood, gleaming through a fine coat of varnish.

Unfortunately, recent events had worn Scotland’s broom pretty rough, not to mention that he is a practical man and did not believe his most common mode of transportation to be above being used for chores. Keeps him grounded, in an ironic way.

Speaking of being grounded.

A drawer slid out of a wooden chest with a painful groan. A flick of Scotland's fingers had the box of cigarettes within fly out towards his coat pocket. It never reached, though.

Scotland's eyes widened comically as England grabbed his smokes out of mid air in a stunning display of agility and _tossed it_ at the _trash can_ ( _"Feed, beastie!")._ Right before it hit the metal, an herbaceous tendril reached out of the rim to catch the box of Marlboros. Scotland didn't have time to do anything that didn’t risk the overall health and wellbeing of his plant, so he glared at England.

Then reached for a fat tome with evil-looking metal clasps sitting on a crooked bookshelf. A shrunken skull grinned from where it sat on the top, a small candle illuminating its empty sockets.

Sensing danger, England hastily ducked behind the couch for cover. "That rubbish’s no good for you and you smoke too much of it anyway!" he justified out from behind the plush backrest that protected his neck and vital regions while grabbing a small vase from the side table, just in case. He dropped it immediately when a squat aloe within sliced up his finger. By its own will, mind you.

"Bloody hell! ...I hate your plants." The Englishman sucked on his bleeding thumb to stem the flow. "Honestly. You don't want to be talking to _Albus Dumbledore_ with cigarette breath, do you? You’re going to return my goodwill with violence?"

Scotland just scoffed, but lowered the book. "Like I'm going to waste a good book by tossing it at yer fat head. See ye around."

And with that he hopped on the broom, heavy book in hand, kicking off into the setting sun through the window that opened as he passed through.

"Foolhardy git," England muttered once his brother was gone, coming out from behind the couch and plopping himself heavily on it. Too exhausted to move, he wiped the remaining blood from his already-healed wound onto the armrest. "I really don't know if he's going to take care of himself out there." His head turned to the side and slightly upwards.

"What do you think, Minty?"

A lingering aroma of mint wafted in the air.

No sooner than he uttered the words did his viridescent little friend float out from behind the dinky hanging lamp that lit the living room to flit over to her best friend. Her scent of peppermints and pudina was so overpowering England felt the taste soaking in his mouth through every breath he took, reminding him of a sinfully luxurious chocolatier’s workshop he took a private tour in alongside dear Queen Elizabeth, right in the heart of the Scottish mountains to celebrate her 68th birthday.

God, their hand-crafted fruit pralines, unenrobed velvet ganaches…... _sublime spices dancing in his mouth_ , _decadent chilled whisky creams_ …... personally wrapped by the Master Chocolatier Iain Burnett himself, in sangria gift boxes emblazoned with cursive gold lettering and held together delicately by glossy silk ribbons…...

He would’ve enjoyed it more if Scotland hadn’t been sitting across the both of them at their private booth, smirking at the Brit over his mug of custom-made Marmite-laced hot chocolate. He’s not sure what put him off more back then: his elder brother besting him in royal birthday gifts that year _or_ his criminally atrocious taste buds. God save the Queen, England should have phoned the police on the spot.

"I think you’re a very caring sibling, Iggy!" Minty trilled, making a loop de loop by England's shoulder and inducing uncharacteristic giggly sounds from him. "Scotch Tape is so very lucky to have a brother like you watching out for him!"

The blonde personification's chuckles died out. "Actually, that's my line." He turned to Flying Mint Bunny with a gentle smile. "Would you mind watching him for me? Tell me if he gets in trouble or does anything dumb, and, if you can, though I won't blame you if you cannot get through to that stubborn git, dissuade him from doing so." 

Flying Mint Bunny smiled so sweetly her lashes squeezed together from the utter force of her earnestness to help. "Don’t you worry none, Iggy! I promise I’ll take care of him for you." She then nuzzled against his cheek, coaxing out giggles once again, tiny pink-padded paws pressing softly on his skin. "But don’t work yourself too hard when I'm not around, okie dokie?"

"O...hehe...okay...ahahaha..."

* * *

_Meanwhile across the sea_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Headmaster’s office_

"So, I understand you are currently looking for a job at Hogwarts, Mr. Kirkland." There was a small smile on Dumbledore's regal yet grandfatherly face which Scotland tried to return. 

_Ugh, he's gotten so old._

It was jarring; the last time the Scotsman saw the old man before him, he'd been a fresh-faced youth whose picture was emblazoned all over the wizard papers, celebrating his victory over Grindelwald.

"Word around the grapevine sure travels fast, hahah. Hah." 

A quick glance showed the office room they were in to be one absolutely befitting the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The desk was lined with little trinkets that played themselves over and over again; a curtained area to a far off side, behind him a hearty fireplace with flames dancing on oddly fragrant kindling.

Overhead was a line of portraits bearing the moving faces of hostile ex-Headmasters, most of which were staring him down like he was a piece of scum stuck on the underside of their fancy wizard boots. He wanted to bare his teeth right back at them, but Dumbledore was watching with those sharp blue eyes of his. 

It wouldn't do to make bad first impressions...at least until he gets hired.

"As of now, we are looking for a temporary replacement for our Professor of Care of Magical Creatures," Dumbledore continued, straightening some papers on his magnificent cherrywood desk that bore an earthy smell of timber, though it had been sitting here in the office for centuries.

Scotland knew: he was the one who carved the damn thing, after all. A gift for Rowena, who was the most powerful witch to ever come from his side of the British Isles way back when.

Dumbledore was still listing options. "You do have a contender for the position, of course, but there is also need for a new History of Magic teacher if you are comfortable with sharing classes with a very stubborn ghost. Other positions include Muggle Studies, Study of Ancient Runes, Arithmancy…"

"Excuse me," Scotland cut in, "but yer Herbology spot wouldnae happen to be available, would it? Or the Dark Arts subject?"

Dumbledore looked up from his list, affable as ever. Scotland found himself wondering what the geezer looked like when he was raging mad. "Do you mean the Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

_Oh right, they changed it._

"That's the one. Sorry, Ah'm nae too good wi' the London speak. Did my growing up in a pretty isolated place." His Scottish cadence doubled in intensity to emphasize his point and give him a touch of nervous vulnerability. To really sell the act, he let his gaze drift down in faux embarrassment and back up again.

Dumbledore bought it.

"Oh, I don't mind. Your accent is quite pleasing to the ear. However, I'm sorry to say these positions have already been filled. Mr. Kirkland," the wizened Headmaster steepled his fingers together and pierced him with an icy blue gaze, "why don't we talk about your strengths, weaknesses and why you think you're suitable for the job? Perhaps we may find just as suitable an arrangement for you."

"...right. So fer the most part Ah specialize in Herbology and Potions, but I am fairly knowledgeable in Defense Against the Dark Arts." Scotland hummed. "I'm a bit of a jack of all trades, but my Magical History and Arithmancy is lacking." 

It wasn't really, but all the details were tedious as fuck to remember, what more to teach? He'd be flinging himself off the tower along with his students. 

"I also have to admit I'm rubbish at Alchemy, Divination and Transfiguration." This was true. For the latter, nothing he transfigures ever really turns out the way he intended it to in the first place. Once, he attempted to transfigure Wales' dismembered toe into a bonsai-sized mango tree but the only fruit it ever bore were more toes, so he kept it in his living room to scare the living shit out of guests who overstay their welcome.

(Much to Wales' disgust, Scotland ate a toe-fruit out of curiosity and was pleasantly surprised to discover it was mango flesh on the inside. The nails, skin and body hair were all human, though.)

(Regardless, he still eats the fruit without peeling them beforehand.)

"How about your Muggle Studies?" Dumbledore questioned.

Scotland reached into his briefcase and pulled out sheafs of papers stuck in a clear plastic file. "I suppose I can say I'm a bit of an expert in Muggles, having lived among them for years. Here are my qualifications. My mentor took the opportunity to sign me up for my OWLs during the end of my apprenticeship; ye'll see that everything is in order."

Dumbledore took the papers and flipped through them. "How very thoughtful of her. A witch I may know, perchance?"

Alistair snorted in a way he hoped conveyed good humor. "I dinnae think so, Professor. She liked to keep tae herself and never told me her real name. Went by the alias of Britannia instead."

"She's actually the one who inspired me to teach, ye know." Scotland added. "She owed me nothing but still saw something worthwhile enough to waste a couple years of her life on a bumpkin bairn, so, I suppose I'm just passing on her goodwill." He shrugged.

"I got lost trying to find Britannia in England." Scotland sweatdropped, despite his deadpan mask being on in full force. This may be awkward to navigate around. "...since I was there and all, I thought I might pay a visit to the Potter house and Potter himself. Since Voldemort is back from the dead." A look of hatred must have slipped out, because he noticed the old headmaster's eyes widen one sixteenth of an inch behind his half-moon spectacles. "When I saw the laddie himself was seemingly unprotected, I took it upon myself to look out for him." 

The personification studied Dumbledore's face, but his wrinkles and stupid long beard were too good at hiding expressions. A few seconds passed with pregnant silence between the two aged souls, just silently gauging each other. Then Dumbledore's beard shifted and Scotland guessed the old boy was smiling again.

"That was a very interesting story, Mr. Kirkland. Thank you for sharing it with me.

Scotland inclined his auburn head ever so slightly. "Thank ye for listening."

Dumbledore chuckled like the personification was a precocious grandson being adorably grateful for a sweet. "You are quite an earnest man, aren't you? It's not every day I discover someone with capabilities such as yours whom I have never known of before. Killing Dementors is no small feat, after all." His eyes twinkled. Almost deviously, but the wrinkles was simply too useful a confounder. "One can even argue that it is impossible, which will make Harry's upcoming hearing quite a difficult situation to untangle."

Scotland's eyes widened, his body half rising off the seat in surprise. "Hold on, they're really going through with it? That's horsesh- spit!" That night back in Potter lad's house, there was indeed a letter spouting nonsense about a hearing for underage magic, but Scotland had been dismissive. As far as he remembered, it's totally out of the norm to _expel_ a student for using magic in self-defense and besides _,_ Scotland interfered before Potter did anything substantial with his wand.

Something wasn't right. And what is Dumbledore gaining by telling him this? Surely he doesn't trust him already, that'd be an uncharacteristically naive move from the Hero of the Global Wizarding War.

Regardless of the old lad's intentions, he doubtless wants to hear Scotland's take on analyzing this troublesome information, so the personification sat back down and stroked his freshly shaved chin in thought.

"Someone in the Ministry is behind this, isn't it?" He racked his brains for a helpful clue as to whom. "Someone high up enough in the chain of command to send two Dementors out of Azkaban and straight down a Muggle neighborhood……" Back in Little Whinging he'd entertained himself by reading little bits and pieces of _The Daily Prophet_ Potter chucked out the window, gathering from those specific articles that the laddie was being slandered and denied by the Ministry...a long list of names he'd committed to memory in annoyance…

"Maybe Minister Fudge himself had a hand in this," Scotland offered, but the wizened headmaster was already shaking his head the moment Fudge's name came into mention.

"Cornelius and I are long acquainted colleagues. Trust me when I say that no matter how fearfully irresponsible he may act in response to unpleasant truths, he would no more likely send two guards of Azkaban after an innocent teenager than he would step down and relinquish his position to a hateful rival. No, I fear the answer to this question is not so simple as that."

The personification cocked his head slightly to the side. "Do you suspect the Ministry has been compromised by Voldemort's influences?"

"It is not outside the realm of possibility, however, there is a much more pressing matter at hand.” Those blue eyes turned sharp. “I gather you have not yet received a letter informing you of young Mr. Potter's hearing calling yourself on as a crucial witness?" 

"I- there were none."

The wizened headmaster clearly did not expect his answer to be otherwise; this turn of events was something he had long predicted.

"Forgive my skeptical tendencies, but I doubt you ever will. Our dear Minister seems to have wrongfully pinpointed Mr. Potter as a rabble-rouser under my manipulations to unseat him from power, and fully intends to remove him from said manipulations by discrediting him thoroughly." For the first time since Scotland arrived here, he saw a flash of vexation cross the other man’s creased face, “...by any means he is capable of.”

_Ah, so that's how it is._

Scotland may be no expert at mind games, but he’s seen enough of them in play to recognize one. “So that nugget intends to use this farce of a hearing to expel Potter, and he’s willing to sink to the level of scum to accomplish his goals.” Scotland closed his eyes, clenching the fabric of his trouser leg in a fist to prevent it from rubbing his temples.

No way he's letting Dumbledore see him genuinely vulnerable. 

_How did the leadership here come to this?_ He pondered, gritting his teeth to dull a growing migraine. _Voldemort on the rise, a wee laddie being tried like a criminal and an insecure buffoon occupying the most powerful position in a Ministry of delusional wretches._

“I understand this doesn’t sit well with you, Mr. Kirkland.” Dumbledore said gently.

“No.”

Scotland’s eyelids slowly lifted, revealing deadly slits of green.

“I’m not sitting well with the fact that yer beating around the bush with what ye want me to do.”

There it was again, the infinitesimal widening of those piercing blue eyes. Clearly, the personification’s sudden bluntness had sent Dumbledore’s previous assessment of his character off-balance, carefully recalibrating to something, in Scotland’s cynical opinion, less patronising.

Until the old boy let out an amused chuckle. “I’ve been too obvious in my intentions, I see. Forgive my bad manners, but I see now that we would both be more comfortable by shedding the formalities.” His eyes twinkled like the Northern Star Polaris.

Scotland crossed his arms and nodded his assent. “I suppose I’m free to speak my mind then.”

Dumbledore nodded.

The personification inhaled.

“I think you want to know if I’m secretly on Voldemort’s side, a theory you have temporarily set aside because I would have dragged the lad to the snake bastard the first chance I got if that were true. You find it worrying that I come from a nowhere village and related to no one in your no doubt expansive circle of information, which makes you suspect I am a spy on the Ministry’s payroll and that they hid my records to preserve my anonymity, but we both are aware that a spy would have let Potter fight his way out on his own. Lastly, perhaps Potter is not the target of all this but you yerself are, and I am merely attempting to get close to you so I can investigate yer skulduggery and out ye to the ministry, safe in the knowledge that my hypothetical bosses will condemn Potter no matter what. Not to mention that there are possibly a hundred more variations of those three theories all churning your brain to butter right now.” Scotland shook his head, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

“I understand, I really do. You wouldn’t be who you are if ye trusted a complete stranger so easily. But I can’t do anything else other than swear on my life I am here to work for you, and that my disgust for Voldemort runs just as deep as yours.” Scotland straightened his back to look at the aged Headmaster right in the eye, blazing with barely repressed passion, “You won’t trust me until I prove myself. All I ask is that you give me that chance! To be a Hogwarts professor and- and yer aid in defeating Voldemort.”

Scotland promptly let his back fall to the hard backrest of his wooden chair, not quite knowing where to go from here now that his lengthy spiel was over. “That’s all I have to say. Do consider my application.”

The crackling flame on the logs had grown, throwing patterns of soot on the surrounding walls, eerily resembling human shadows. A warm amber glow danced all around the room, bright enough to illuminate Dumbledore’s half-moon glasses to opaque whiteness, reflecting Scotland’s face right back at himself. 

For the first time in a long while, he realised he looked kind of tired. His thick auburn hair was wind-tossed from flying here and his eyes were lined with shadows. Shaving this evening had only served to make him look younger and all the more pitiful for being in such a careworn state.

He's sunk so low, hasn't he. It's hard to imagine that he used to be so powerful…...would _Dia'dìosganach_ be able to return to Her pathetic vessel, he wondered. Would She still consider him worthy to symbiose?

......It doesn't matter. He'll rip the Lesser Abomination out of that undeserving murderer Tom Riddle even if it kills all three of them. He's the one who made a Faustian deal with Voldemort back before the bawbag was even worth anything, gave away his eldritch parasite to power the egomaniac all those years ago to ruin his conqueror brother, whom he'd hated so painfully back then. Henceforth, he bears the burden of all sacrifices necessary to crush that Hitler-wannabe Riddle back into nothing.

Dumbledore stood up, taking the reflection with him. The Headmaster lightly pressed his fingertips on his desk, all regal posture and dignified robes, looking down at the man before him through his still-opaque spectacles. Scotland was not all that surprised to see the other man still bore a pleasant expression despite being so rudely analysed.

“I was right the first time; you really are quite an earnest man, Mr. Kirkland. Very well, I accept your proposal. Please report to my Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall before the end of the week to finish the proceedings on your position as the Care of Magical Creatures substitute, Muggle Studies teacher and teaching assistant to Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

Scotland blinked. Responsibilities for three subjects? Did he just get suckered into covering for multiple teachers at once?

“The professor for the latter is new to teaching as well, and I am sure she’d appreciate your help.” The opacity lifted from Dumbledore’s half-moon spectacles as he winked, tilting his head amiably. Scotland didn’t know what to make of it but stand up to shake his new employer’s hand.

“I promise ye won’t regret this.”

“Oh, I’m sure I would not. However, we’re not yet done here, Mr. Kirkland- or may I call you Alistair?” 

Scotland hummed in assent. 

“Please come with me, Alistair.”

Dumbledore stepped over to the fireplace, where a golden clock with thirteen brassy hands, large crystalline jars of boiled sweets in all colors of the rainbow warmed up on the mantelpiece. Next to them were fragile porcelain figurines painted robins-egg blue, decorating the beautiful marble. There was no grate to shut the fireplace opening, and a handsome pile of chopped logs sat next to the wall smelling of applewood. 

_Applewood's a good choice_ , Scotland thought. _It burns slow when dry and smells good_.

The headmaster grabbed a handful of ash from a wee cloth sack the Scotsman didn’t recognize as containing Floo powder at first because he'd let his gaze wander to the floor to a shocking sight.

_What are thoseeeeeee?!_

The headmaster's boots bloomed like trumpets around the hem but was tight as a glove everywhere else, laced up to his shins and a seizure-inducing shade of psychedelic purple, puff balls attached to the very curly tips and _jingling_ with every step.

_Its hideous. Hideous!_

_…...I've got to buy everyone a pair._

“Where are we going?” Scotland asked, tearing his eyes away from the Quasimodo of footwear.

“To the meeting, of course. The Order of the Phoenix will need to meet their newest member.”

____________________________________________________________________________

_Dusk, around 7 o’ clock_

_Number 12, Grimmauld Place_

_Upstairs broom cupboard_

_Point Of View: Third person omniscient_

“Stop shoving, Ron!”

“Quiet everyone, I can’t hear anything-”

“Please, Hermione, it’d take a miracle to hear whatever’s going on downstairs even if we’re quiet as dormice.”

"Who's that bloke? I think he's new."

"Which one? I can't see, move over- oh, sorry-"

"Harry, your elbow's digging into my ribs."

"Over there, do you see, the tall one with dark red hair."

The lanky teenager adjusted himself where he was peering through the floorboards with the newest version of the Sneak-o-scope, whose lens were so blurry because they weren't meant to see through anything thicker than a single layer of floorboards.

After a quarter of a minute searching for Fred's unhelpfully indicated direction of 'over there', Harry’s eyes found purchase on a tall figure clad in a black trench coat, his jaw dropping at the sight. 

It was him _,_ the stranger from before who saved him and Dudley from Dementors! What was _he_ doing here?

“Hey, I know that bloke!” Harry said, and all eyes turned on him. “He’s the one I told you lot about, remember? Alistair Kirkland.”

Ron’s jaw dropped as well to unintentionally but hilariously mimic his best mate. “That’s him? _That’s_ the guy who bloody incinerated two Dementors with his _bare hands_? You’ve got to be joking, he looks like he's only a couple years older than Bill!"

“Wait, wait!” shout-whispered Hermione. “I think that’s Professor Dumbledore right next to him! About two seats away, at the end of the table!”

Ron rolled his eyes. “That’s not really right next to him, is it?”

“Oh, be quiet, _Ronald,_ at least I saw him. Do you think it’s easy trying to use this thing? Its lens are getting more blurry by the second." She hesitated, rounding on the Weasley twin nearest to her. "George, is that normal?”

George shrugged, jostling Ginny in the process, who pinched him in retaliation. “I dunno, they’re still experimental. Ow! Feck off, Ginny!”

“You almost pushed me into the wall! There’s a pile of rat droppings there, if you haven’t noticed! Hey, I think they’re finished with the meeting.”

She was right. Everyone was getting up and shaking hands, whereas others pooled out of the room in a steady stream. Dumbledore and Kirkland were part of that crowd. 

Heart jumping in his chest, Harry bolted up, knocking over half the room in the process and sprinted out the broom cupboard. He had to catch Dumbledore, talk to him before he disappeared just like the last meeting they tried to eavesdrop on. He needed answers, answers Dumbledore owed him-

As he thundered down the stairs, he could hear multiple pairs of footsteps following behind him; whether to stop him from doing something rash or join him in getting answers he didn’t know.

Just as Harry rounded the corner to the dining room, he saw that everyone who wasn’t staying for dinner had left. He turned his head around, desperately searching for the sight of half-moon spectacles and a long white beard despite already knowing it was futile. 

Why was Dumbledore avoiding him? What on earth had he done to deserve being deserted like this? Righteous fury that was just simmering underneath his skin nowadays was coming to a boil once more. Ron and Hermione, who'd reached the bottom of the steps took one look at their friend’s stormy disappointment and slowed down, sharing a look between each other as if deciding among themselves who would break the silence.

“Hold on,” Hermione piped up in relief, “isn’t that the Mr. Kirkland you mentioned before over there?”

Electric hope jolted Harry’s veins, making him whip around to look inside the Black dining room. Sure enough, a man with a familiar acerbic expression towered over Mrs Weasley, who seemed to be insisting that he stay for dinner. Kirkland on the other hand was shaking his head and attempting to make an escape, but Mrs Weasley had already taken hold of his arm and firmly seated him at the table. Opposite him, Mr Weasley peered at other man with an expression Harry could only describe as…...wariness? Mixed with apprehension and dislike? Or was it just gas?

_That's odd._ The young wizard was sure it took a lot to make someone like Mr. Weasley dislike you, so what did that say about the mysterious wizard before him? He didn’t seem so bad at first, though contentious and gruff, but now that Harry had some time post-Dementor attack to ponder things over……

_He sat back on his heels. Slowly, his head turned to look at Harry at his five o' clock direction, neck turning at a greater degree than Harry had ever seen a person turn._

…...the man _is_ rather uncanny.

“Come on, guys.” Harry called over to the rest of them, shaking off the chill down his spine from the unsettling memory. “We have to take a seat close to Kirkland, we may find out something- what’s wrong, Hermione?”

“Oh, nothing,” she squeaked, hands hiding her nose and mouth, “got a bit of allergies from the room, you know. Ahem. Let’s go, then.”

“Go where? What are you guys talking about?” Ginny peered around the door. “Is it dinnertime already- oh. Erm.” She turned away from the door, brows furrowed and pale cheeks rosy. “So that’s Kirkland. I’m going to see if Mum needs any help in the kitchen. Uh-” A bit of hesitation crossed her prettily freckled face- “do you want to see what Mum’s cooking, Harry?”

There was no answer.

“Harry?” Ginny turned back around only to see Fred and George in the spot where Harry was previously standing. The trio was already pulling their chairs out at the table. 

Her twin brothers smirked at her as the colour in her pale cheeks rose from pink bashfulness to red-hot indignation.

“He’s gone off to talk to that tall bloke over there. Really, sis, you have to make a move faster than that if you wanna get to him first.” Fred said in a sing-song voice.

“Before someone bolder and spicier catches his attention.” George wagged his eyebrows in the most annoying way.

“Oh, shut it!” she screeched. Kicking George in the shin and socking Fred on the arm, she turned on her heel and stomped off to the kitchen, leaving her still-guffawing brothers in rolling in pain on the floor.

* * *

In the meantime, Harry, Ron and Hermione had secured a spot at the gigantic dinner table next to Mr Weasley, which was about as close to Kirkland as they could get. Kirkland had on a mildly pissed off, deadpan face Harry is now associating as the man’s default expression, listening to Remus chatter politely about how glad he was that Kirkland joined The Order and _congratulations for getting a position at Hogwarts_ -

“Wait a moment,” Harry interrupted, unable to contain himself. “You’re a professor at Hogwarts this year?”

Kirkland turned to him, brow raised. He didn’t look surprised to see Harry there despite not looking up once from his one-sided conversation with Lupin. 

“That’s right. I’ll be seeing you and your pals this year for at least one of the subjects I’ll be teaching.”

“ _One_ of the subjects? How many are you teaching?” Ron questioned. His lanky form shrank a little when the mysterious wizard’s apathetic gaze fell on him. Harry patted his best friend’s knee in comfort, knowing Kirkland’s scary looks took some time getting used to.

“Technically three.” Kirkland counted them off on his fingers. Harry noted how calloused and rough they looked under the bright chandelier lights. “Muggle Studies, temporary substitute to Care of Magical creatures and teaching assistant to Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

He shrugged, frowning exaggeratedly and lifting his brows in a 'what can I do' mien, rolling his eyeballs for good measure. "The things I do for higher pay."

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting more pay, I think…but blimey,” Ron exclaimed. “You’ve only got one proper teaching position and it’s the subject almost nobody takes- gah!” The ginger lad winced and his eyes watered as Hermione, seated next to him and probably the one to kick the ginger lad under the table before he put his foot in his mouth, took over the conversation.

“That’s fascinating, Professor!” She beamed. “But what do you mean by teaching assist-”

“Suppertime!” Mrs. Weasley interrupted, bustling into the room like a woman on a mission. She was waving her wand about, levitating dish after dish onto the table. The poor antique furniture groaned protestingly under the weight as the metal platters arranged themselves at the table, as did the cups and cutlery Ginny placed in front of everyone with a handy command of _Wingardium Leviosa_. Hermione, helpful as ever, magicked the juice flask and poured a drink into everyone’s cups.

Scotland was suddenly acutely aware of how everyone used wands and how he ought to be more vigilant about his habit of wandless magic. 

Not long after, a hearty smell of gravy, roasted meats and hearty vegetable stews filled the air, drawing a hum of appreciation around the room. 

"You've outdone yourself again, Molly!"

"Oooh, Mum, this looks absolutely mouthwatering."

"These soups smell amazing, are they a new recipe?"

"Zis pudding...Bill, what is it called?” 

“Hmm... it looks like Spotted Dick with treacle sauce. Do you want a slice?”

“ _Non_ , I want to make sure I never order eet on accident when I dine at Briteesh restaurants."

Mrs Weasley was chuckling warmly, swelling with pride at her ability to feed everyone. Thankfully, she didn’t hear the last little exchange between Bill and Fleur, the latter grimacing at the raisin-studded pudding. “Everyone take a seat, please! Fred, go wash your hands, they’re absolutely filthy. _George_ , how did you get that footprint on your pants? Oh, and Bill dear, go call Sirius and Tonks down. I think they’re in the drawing room.”

It didn't take long before the pleasant hum of chatter, dining and drinking were wafting all the room to mingle with the delectable aromas of dinner; a veritable concerto of rosy, cosy synesthesia one might see in an oil painting of Christmas supper in a warm cottage. 

Tonks was entertaining Ginny by turning into a very impressive mimicry of Snape, making banshee noises and overall mocking the Potions Master. Remus was engaged in conversation with Sirius about their shenanigans in their schoolboy days, their rich chuckling wafting in the air and plied with wine. Lost in their own world at the head of the table, Bill was feeding Fleur a spoonful of minestrone soup whereas opposite them, Fred and George were mischievously whispering to Charlie, who shook his head more and more vigorously with every word they said.

Scotland didn't know anyone so he didn't speak, simply staring at the noisy people surrounding him. 

In an insane sort of way, he feels like the only real person in a living, breathing artwork of Christmas supper; dazedly contemplating the ignorant bliss of his fellow paint-people.

Scotland's idle brain ran with it, weaving an increasingly bizarre backstory.

They were trapped in a gladsome party some higher power compels them to perform to the world and only he knew their lives were a sham, but he is as much a puppet as they are. Their canvas would be the largest in the gallery with spotlights on them from all four corners; while pompous art critics and philistine nuggets alike will comment and scrutinise his painted visage. 

_A lone frown amidst jolly faces, unwilling to make merry, unable to leave._

Times like this, he feels less like a country and more like Alistair, the antisocial hermit who talks to botany. 

......This is why he hates being around people. You forget you're lonely til’ you're stuck in a crowd.

Hermione was trying to find a polite opening to continue where she left off with the currently dissociating Mr. Kirkland, but Mr. Weasley beat her to it, a terrifyingly enthusiastic glint in his eye. 

“Did you say _Muggle Studies?_ He exclaimed, making Alistair jump. He fervently adjusted his glasses and leaned over the table, whatever reservations he had against Kirkland temporarily put aside in favour of this exciting new development. “That was my favourite subject in Hogwarts! It’s a frightening shame, I tell you, how little we know about how the other side lives…... tell me, what are your thoughts on those new-fangled portable fellytones?”

“Sorry?” Confusion eased Alistair's face into something lighter as he tried to rejig his mind back to reality. “Do ye mean mobile phones?” He shrugged his trench coat off his tall frame, causing small clouds of soot to dust his chair, and rummaged around in one of the pockets to pull out a Nokia 1011. It was blocky and simple, a short antennae sticking out the top. 

He brandished the chunky gadget at Mr. Weasley. “I'm sure yer talking about something like this.”

Arthur looked positively breathless when Alistair handed the dull gray phone over to him, hands shaking as he caressed the ugly communication brick with reverence. He poked at its rubber buttons, eyes lighting up when the screen blinked to life.

“It’s the first mass-produced GSM mobile phone by the company Nokia, but they stopped production last year so there’s no point in me keeping an obsolete model." Alistair elaborated. "Ye can keep it if you like. I tinkered around with it to make it more resistant to scrambling from magic, but no promises.”

“Oh, I can’t possibly-” Arthur thought better of it. “Thank you. This is mighty generous of you.”

Alistair’s brows wrinkled at the other man's sincere gratitude. “It’s nothing.“ 

Mr. Weasley glanced up at Alistair like he was taking back every unflattering thought he’d ever had about him. Seeing an opportunity, Hermione quickly asked: “Excuse me, Professor, but what do you mean by temporary Care of Magical Creatures? Isn't Hagrid returning for the school year?"

"And who's teaching DADA this year if not you?” Ron added hastily.

It was immediately followed up by Harry's query. "Are you a spy for the Order? Is that why you were hanging around my house? Wait, more importantly, you and Mrs. Figg have to join my hearing, don't you, to convince the Wizengamot I didn't do anything to deserve being expelled?" 

Questions, questions, questions. He’s been a professor all of three hours and he’s already sick of students. _No surprise there, reprobate,_ scolded the voice in his head that sounded like England. _You’ve a black heart. These poor weans are reaping the poison fruit you sowed and you're complaining about doing your job._

_You know what, why don't I dub ye Midgie?_ Alistair replied scathingly to the irksome voice. It was a spiteful Scottish term that embodied the pure pestiferous essence of mosquitoes and all associated vexations _._ _Haud yer wheesht, Midgie._

The Scotsman downed mouthful of wine before answering.

“He’ll be a bit late for the school year, don’t ask me where he went. As for DADA, all ye need to know is that I’m teaching too.” Alistair frowned. “No matter what the other one has to say aboot it, at least. As for you-” Alistair dramatically pointed at Harry, the teenager tensing at the overt gesture. "Ah was just being a creepy tourist, then I saw Fletcher was useless at minding you so I did his job for him."

One more gulp of wine down the hatch at having to think of Fletcher and his hazardrous Apparating.

"Figg and Ah'll be there in court wi' ye, lad. They've no good reason to snap yer wand, so stop worrying. Understood?"

Harry lifted a finger. "Er-"

"Super! Now don't you three bother me until the school year starts." To punctuate his point the Scottish wizard butterknife-stabbed a roast potato and tore into it, effectively ending the conversation.

However, Harry's curiosity refused to be deterred by table manners. He opened his mouth to speak, but was chastised by Mrs. Weasley who seemingly appeared out of the thin air right next to her husband. “Alright, that’s enough questions! You three shouldn’t pester your professor when he’s trying to eat. And Arthur, really, what on earth is that thing?" Mr. Weasley was currently absorbed with the many ringtones he could set in the phone. He laughed out loud when frog croaks came on.

"Not at the dinner table, please.” She shook her head and huffed in fond exasperation. “Start filling your plate, dears, or there won’t be any left for you.”

She was right. Everyone lined each side of the table, silverware clinking about as they piled large portions of delicious spread onto their plates. Mr. Weasley, Harry, Ron and Hermione quickly grabbed helpings of salted pork and gravy potatoes before it was all gone. Alistair, on the other hand, plucked a sticky bun off the plate nearest to him and dipped it in his wine goblet before taking a bite.

It took a bit before he noticed the trio before him wrinkling their noses at his direction. Any other day he'd just ignore them; a couple sassenachs getting weirded out by his food habits, nothing new. 

But...perhaps he could discourage them from getting too curious about him. He didn't need three detective-wannabes on his trail, just take a look at the last bairn that tried to sneak up on him. 

Poor wee Tom. 

Bread dribbling in red wine, he languished in his next bite, grinning predatorily at them straight after. If the creepiness of seeing his teeth stained bloody red didn't make 'em shit their pants and crush their eagerness to know more about their new teacher, the sight of his mouth stretching ear-to-ear probably will.

He's no fool, he knows there's something uncanny about his appearance ever since he dabbled with the Eldritch abominations. He may look all normal in the daytime, but if he turned his head just right...or some poor soul glimpsed him from the corner of their eye...perhaps catch sight of him in dim lighting...there will be _something_ quite wrong but no mortal eye will ever be able to put their finger on _what_ exactly.

Somewhere at the corner of the table, Mundungus fainted.

* * *

_Witching hours_

_Edgecombe Residence_

_Above a Pacific of clouds_

Nightfall draped itself over the earth like the smoothest velvet. Among its dazzling constellations, hid a pixie-like figure who traced luminescent patterns in the sky by riding on comets.

A Comet 260, to be precise. But Cho hadn’t meant to fly this far up. 

A very long way down where she was currently sitting on her broom like a bench, kicking her legs out in the wind, was the gauzy midnight purple bedroom her best friend and honorary sister Marietta was sleeping off the Firewhisky-mixed Butterbeer they’d made with Mr. Edgecombe’s personal stash. Giggling and unsuccessfully trying to stifle the giggles, they sloshed the liquid around in a makeshift bartender’s shaker that was basically just two cups enchanted together, mimicking from memory a performing chef on the Muggle device called ‘telly’.

Cho had allowed Marietta to drink most of it, who knocked out soon afterwards, snoring like a foghorn in her whiskey-soaked slumber. 

Feeling relieved she no longer had to keep up a cheery facade, then immediately feeling guilty she was being so callous of her friend’s efforts to brighten her spirits, Cho tucked the other girl into bed and left the room to collect her broom. She didn’t want to sleep just yet.

Because she was afraid. Afraid to wake up crying again, and all that work poor, loyal Marietta put into taking the both of them on a nice outing today will be ruined in the blink of an eye. Surely, the strawberry-blond girl will finally grow tired of the weepy Cho and decide it was easier to leave her alone than stay by her side, just like the rest of the girls. 

To be honest, she didn’t blame them for getting fed up. Most days she doesn’t even want to be around herself.

Ever since she was young, taking flight on a broom always helped her clear her mind; put everything in perspective. Nowadays, it provides a private setting for her to brood by her lonesome, so no one will catch her going through the motions and say: “Oh, Cho, not _again.”_ It only made her angry, which for some reason made her cry more and then she’ll just feel humiliated on top of the grief and guilt that just kept worming its way back into her mind. 

_So much for being Ravenclaw,_ she scolded herself at the memory, tears pricking her eyes as the echo of that past emotional turmoil wedged itself in her chest where it hurts most. _Trying to cope this way when you should know better._

Cho roughly wiped at her increasingly wet eyes. Once the blurriness cleared she realised her broom had drifted far enough with the wind to a thin patch of aperitas clouds, each one the colour of fresh bruises. 

In an effort to distract herself from her increasingly spiralling mood, the young girl manoeuvred her Comet 260 closer to the patch. Leaning daringly low to trawl gloved fingers through it, they parted to reveal rolling hills and gigantic forests, all surrounding a loch with black waters. The dismal loch yawned open like the long maw of a kraken, thick fog pooling at the edges into flatter lands where there were no houses, no people, no lights; only a dark, desolate sight to shatter even the most rugged spirit.

Cho briskly looked away, feeling forsaken at the terrifying view of the mortal world below. No one would ever find her body if she met with misfortune here.

She’s so afraid of how easy it is to cry nowadays. It was proof that something terribly, terribly sad had taken root in her since learning of Cedric’s murder and the part she’d played in it. She didn’t want her parents to know. They will become tired as well, and she wasn’t strong enough to handle the thought that her parents would soon wish she wasn’t around for flaunting her misery about.

_…...Thinking too much._ Cho swung her legs over the broom to straddle it properly and kicked off, speeding through a thick patch of clouds that hit her face like a suspended wall of water. 

_You killed him._

She burst out the other side, gaining speed,feeling the wind rush all around her in gasps and whistles. 

_You told him to go for it._

The air was frosty up here and she could feel droplets on her face pinch as their temperature drastically dropped, but the anguished lass paid them no attention.

_He championed his heart for you and now everyone has to suffer._

She yanked her broom up to ride a rising current of wind in a daring move that would have thrown off a lesser flyer, flying past the full, pale moon to the ocean of sparkling stars overhead, so beautiful, so cold.

The breeze cooled her wet skin. She shivered. It chased the thoughts away.

The stars didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything, did they. It’s sad that this makes her more relaxed than being around people who love her. Maybe they shouldn’t care about her either; it’ll be easier for both parties, wouldn’t it?

The jaguar’s speed she’d been running her broom with slowly tapered out, allowing her to drift slowly to where the air was thinner and she’d have less oxygen to ruminate with. 

Cho closed her eyes and took a deep breath, shuddering when the chilly air entered her lungs.

_Here you go, me. Peace and quiet._

_Just calm down and don’t think._

She drifted in silence for what felt like minutes, flowing with zephyrs and comprehending the stunning expanse of nightfall……

…...when a blast of mint assaulted her nose, jolting her brain to wakefulness.

“SCOTCH TAPE!!! WHERE ART THOU!? SCOTCH TAAAPE!!!”

_What on earth……?_

A small, green…...something zipped in her direction at alarming speed, latching on to her broom with such impact it nearly threw her off. Luckily, her Seeker reflexes righted the broom on instinct before she could plummet to her death.

The green thing, which she could now see in the moonlight had wings and was rabbit-shaped, did not seem to realize the disaster it had nearly wrought.

“I was looking for you, you awful speed-hog! Flying so fast, whatever will England think…...eh? Hello! You’re not Scotch Tape. It’s nice to meet you!”

The little green rabbit looked up at Cho with the most adorable chocolate brown eyes, a tiny paw moving forward to tap Cho’s knuckle. A sudden burst of fondness burst in the girl's chest. Much to her shock, a delighted giggle bubbled forth from herself into equally delighted laughter.

The rabbit smiled sweetly, but it fell when Cho cupped her mouth with her other hand to stop.

“Um, hello to you too, sweet rabbit.” Her voice was muffled through her fingers, so she placed them back on the broomstick and repeated her words, but less awkwardly. “Who are you?”

The soft green rabbit sparkled at the question, releasing another blast of minty fragrance in the air that almost made her eyes water. Good thing she was getting better at holding back ocular liquids. “What a polite young girl you are! I’m Flying Mint Bunny, the only flying mint bunny in the world! But my friends call me Minty, which you can too because I just have decided that you are now my friend.” 

The rabbit held out a pink-padded paw. “What is your name, friend?”

Cho’s heart felt a pang at the mention of friends, but she impatiently brushed it away. “I’m Cho Chang. It’s very nice to meet you too, Minty.”

She shook the tiny paw between thumb and forefinger, careful not to exert too much pressure on the squishable-looking limb. 

Remembering what the magical rabbit was shouting about, Cho looked around the night sky, but they were alone among the clouds. She turned back to Minty. “There's no one around......Are you lost, Minty? Do you need any help finding your friend, er...Scotch Tape?”

“Hehehe,” Minty blushed dark green on both cheeks while rubbing them with her tiny paws. “So embarrassing…...that’s my nickname for him. His name is Alistair Kirkland, and I mistook you for him because he’s flying on a broom too, and he flies like a crazy person so I lost him somewhere. There's probably no point calling for him... His ears just got injured recently, you see, and he doesn’t heal as well as before. _Sigh_." The rabbit said the last part out loud instead of actually sighing. "Have you seen him?” 

Minty’s eyes filled to the brim with hope, mouth pouting where her paws were still hiding her blush. “He’s the brother of my very dear friend and I would hate to see him come to harm... though it might be good for a chortle, hoho.”

“Ah, I see.” But Cho really didn’t. “What does he look like?”

“Oh, you know,” Minty flapped her petite paw and flippantly stared off into the distance like she could already picture the man in her mind’s eye. “Auburn haired, ridiculously tall, and he's got an absolutely _scandalous_ face. Humph! So improper.” She turned her nose up most crossly. “Unlike my good chum, whose visage is perfectly respectable like the true gentleman he is. Oh, wait, I forgot. He’s got eyes like the ocean too.”

“Blue eyes?” Cho was bewildered by this sudden complimentary comment.

“No no no, darling. His stupid dead fish eyes _feels_ like the ocean. Briny shores reaching into the depths of _insanity,_ like from one of those black-and-white horror films shot in the 1890’s where the whole cast died of inexplicably grotesque, drowning-related circumstances." The rabbit nodded firmly, nose wrinkled in distaste. "His eyes are like that.”

Minty hummed. “Now that I think about it, his everything’s like that.”

“Oh, I see, that’s…... very descriptive,” Cho imagined if she ever saw someone like that on the street, she’d alert the Aurors for fear he was a serial killer, like _Sirius Black_. “But do you know where he lives? Or goes to work?”

The winged rabbit thought hard, tapping a paw to her temple. She muttered “Think, think, think.” in sync with her taps.

The pixie-like teenager feared Minty would be unable to recall any details and Cho would have to face Marietta’s wrath for running off on her own and bringing back a new guest to their sleepover because there is no way she could leave the poor thing alone to fend for herself, damn it!

“Eureka! I remember now! He’s going to be working as a teacher in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” Her fuzzy face promptly fell. “That’s so _far_ from here. How on earth did I get so lost?”

“Oh nonono, don’t worry!” Cho exclaimed, excited at finally being able to be useful to the poor thing. “I’m a student there. The school year will be starting soon, so maybe you want to stay with me until we can ride the train together to Hogwarts? I mean, if you want to, that is.”

Minty gasped, holding both paws to her heart while her smooth feathery wings delicately covered her mouth.

_Oh no._ Cho froze, afraid that she’d offended this precious creature.

“Aieeeeeee! Thank you so much, such a sweet and kind child you are! I’m going to tell Scotch Tape to make you his favourite student!” Minty’s voice trilled like a bell and soared in spirals around Cho, sending mint leaves fluttering out of the thin air and a ticklish need to chortle through the young girl’s entire self.

Cho didn’t bother to hold back her laughter this time, genuine and graceless and so very breathless.

Feels good.


	5. Weaving Sunsilk on Anansi's Loom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Protective family always get in the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: hey lovely readers! I'm so sorry for taking so long to update. I mean, I have so many excuses ready, but in the end, they are just excuses. But I'll hand them out anyway. It's been a very busy time with my internship, and I really wanted to get the Courtroom Arc over with in this chapter so I can hurry ol' Scotland to Hogwarts already. But I've kept everyone waiting long enough. I'll try to update the next part soon!

**Weaving Sunsilk on Anansi's Loom**

Scotland let out a low exhale and leaned back in his chair, trying to figure out a way to sneak out of Grimmauld Place without anyone the wiser. A more difficult task than it initially seemed to be, especially for someone who was not used to moving covertly while under the scrutiny of many, but he'll think of something.

To tell the truth, he’d gone further than expected with this little scheme of his, being invited to the headquarters itself and being introduced to its members. He’s met some of his colleagues, notably the Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, who was more or less ambivalent about making the acquaintance of a fellow countryman and more interested in peering through every detail of his papers while inspecting him sternly over her severe, rectangular spectacles. 

After being sworn to secrecy with the help of a magical binding contract, she told him of a few other staff members who were part of the Order but did not attend today, but he would meet them all in due time; and every now and then he gave a ‘hm’ and a nod at her informative words of what was expected of him as a schoolmaster. At the end of it she handed him a syllabus planning sheet and a small golden badge with the Hogwarts crest, likely meant to be identification of some sort. It all felt very official and a bit weird, like being welcomed by a stranger into his own house.

During the meeting, they discussed more matters more disturbing than textbooks and monthly wages: the Dementor attempt on Harry Potter, the culprit responsible for siccing them on him, and what implications it carried. Theories flew about across the room in either hushed babbles or across the table all the way to the head where Dumbledore sat, serene but every part of his body language alert and thoughtful. Nothing came of the discussion, but there was one thing they all agreed on: Harry was in for a gruelling trial with the odds stacked against him. Fudge doubtless was biased, and he will try his damndest to sway the Wizengamot to his decision- unless they as the defense provide irrefutable and concrete proof Harry did nothing to merit expulsion.

That was where they hit a snag. Scotland may have been the one to cast the spell Harry was being framed for, but the spell itself was unregistered and dangerously destructive, and to make matters worse it was cast _wandless_ , a skill so advanced that Alistair Kirkland should have been 6 times his age as well as stunted one way or another to be able to carry it out that level of magic. Not to mention that to all parties concerned, he’s an informally educated country bumpkin that appeared of the thin air. There wasn’t a single relative or friend he could procure to back his claims, seeing as he was an orphan who grew up with muggles. 

Plus he killed two Azkaban guards. Anyone of these reasons were enough for the Wizengamot to poke and prod at his credibility as a witness, but this...this might land him in prison itself.

This meeting had not quite endeared him to the rest of the Order, especially the man of the house Sirius Black, who stared at him with all the skepticism of an atheist before a Christian miracle. Volunteering as witness despite all these drawbacks didn’t move the others much either. Not that he blamed them; the more thought he put into this the more impossible it seemed. He needed to prepare- he needed _advice,_ but first he had to stop wasting time here. Hence the current plotting of an escape attempt.

The table had long cleared to make way for the more dessertian foodstuffs.

They were the usual English fare; Decadent Trifle, spiced toffee-cream pie and strawberry jam tartlets. Furthest from him was the banoffee pie. A dense, chilled treat comprising of banana slices, sticky toffee and light whip cream. They layered atop each other on a buttery biscuit crust, topped with a whimsical flourish of candied fruit.

Scotland grimaced at the sight. He didn’t much fancy the sweet, stodgy pie, but it was a hit with everyone else. He turned his head around the room, searching for some other exit that wasn't the dining hall main entrance or the kitchen door.

No dice, there wasn't a single secret exit he could see. Most unhelpfully, he only caught sight of a fat heaping plate of Spotted Dick with treacle sauce. A _classic,_ they say. Scotland thinks they mean ‘boring’. But who can blame him, right? Not only is it a common sponge cake with a one note flavour called 'excess sugar', it's got a name that sounds like a strictly private disease and appeared to be covered in fungified open sores, which were presumably currants. _Sweetened_ currents and drenched in treacle, because surely the only way to make sugar better was to add more and more and _more_ until the sheer concentration of syrup dries one’s throat and makes ‘em choke.

  


The teenagers in front of him were definitely a fan, though. They were piling their plates with a slice of banoffee and Spotted Dick each; the ginger one eating with a gusto that could definitely rival his brother Ireland, a man with a terrifyingly large appetite despite- or perhaps because of- his gaunt physique. The trio were chattering about Hogwarts, other friends and whatever else schoolkids talked about; and Scotland might have heard his name in hushed tones among them, but he was currently, how should he put this, distracted.

“A slice, Kirkland?” Lupin offered, holding a clean plate with a generous portion of Spotted Dick in Scotland’s face. “Don’t knock it til’ you try it.”

Alistair inched his head backwards ever so slightly. “No thanks.” He placed a finger on the rim of the plate and pushed it back to the werewolf. “ _You_ should eat it. You need the sugar more than I do.”

“Oh, alright then…...?”

“Yeah, put some meat on those bones. I’m stuffed, by the way- oh, would you look at the _time_ ,” he looked at his wrist in pretend shock and put it away before anyone realised there was no watch on it. “I’ve gotta run.” Scotland stood up, startling the table. He grabbed his trench coat and walked off while pulling it over himself one sleeve at a time; his coat wasn’t even fully on before he was halfway across the room, throwing up a casual hand in farewell without looking back. “Thanks for having me. G’night.” 

Abrupt exits. Crude but effective.

“So soon?” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, a forkful of banoffee falling back onto her plate. “You’ve barely touched anything! Are you sure you’ll be alright, dear? Do take something before you leave!”

Alistair assumes she was going overboard with the motherly concern because like the fool he was, he’d just had to go and shave his stubble. He must look like a starved twenty-something Hogwarts dropout who eats leftovers at least five days a week, and sleeps on an abandoned mattress smack in the middle of a cockroach-infested building he won't be able to afford next month.

To be fair to her it wasn’t exactly inaccurate, but being fussed over was something he’d never gotten used to and he refused to start now.

“I appreciate your concern, ma’m, but it’s getting late and I have to, er,” he paused, straining to produce a plausible excuse. “make my way to Diagon Alley before the library closes. I’ll just show myself out,” he said, fully intending to fly out the nearest window in bird form rather than chance getting lost in Grimmauld Place’s labyrinthine hallways.

“Not so fast, Kirkland.” 

Sirius Black stood up from his seat, placing a palm on the table to stare down the Scottish wizard across the throng. Almost as if on cue, the room fell silent. 

Alistair paused in his tracks. Carefully reeling in the frustration twisting his features into a deeper frown than he normally sported, he turned to face the unhealthy-looking fugitive. Under the wavering chandelier lights, he got his first good look at the man who once terrorized his school.

Sirius Black’s skin was waxy, his black hair long and matted in thick strands as if dipped in motor oil and left to dry. The white shirt he wore was yellowish with age and sagged on his shoulders like it belonged on a larger, healthier person, sleeves pushed up all the way to his elbows to show off old scars and an unhealthy pallor. And as if the man weren’t already haggard enough, his cheeks were hollow and sunken to match his eyes. 

However, his eyes _burned_ bright; unyielding and suspicious like the underlying tension in the way he leaned over the table. It was the most alive Alistair had seen him since being introduced to every member of the Order earlier in the evening, and this little detail intrigued the personification. Just enough to stop him in his tracks.

“You called?” Alistair answered tonelessly. His hands rested in his pockets. There was no reason to believe that Black would pick a fight with him, but if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck and looks like a duck? No point wasting debating what is or isn't logical, is there, it's only practical to act according to the flow of events.

He felt the room tense; they sensed that Sirius had not taken to this stranger since he stepped foot into the manor and had, in spite of them all hoping that feeling had blown over, finally boiled into the start of an uncomfortable confrontation. Alistair noted he couldn’t see Black’s hands either. 

“What kind of business would you need to carry out at Diagon Alley’s libraries at this time of night?” The hungry eyes narrowed, betraying the forced neutrality in its owner’s throaty voice. “That place isn’t safe when it’s dark, you know. Lots of unsavory characters meandering about.” Judging from the look on his face, he thinks Alistair could very well be one of those unsavory characters. 

Or was he being threatened? Alistair supposed it was a good thing that there were at least a couple of fellows not so ready to accept him into the fold, though. It makes him feel less concerned about the dangerous situations that may happen around Potter in this crucial time when Voldemort is gathering steam in his second attempt at dictatorship. He wouldn’t have to worry about leaving the lad to them when he sniffs out Voldemort’s trail. 

_Oh hell,_ he realised, _I sound like such a mollycoddling sap._

_You’ve always been soft._ Midgie drawled, sounding more like the British Empire- not England as he currently knows- than ever. _You could never not care, you don’t know how to play chessmaster- that’s why you’ll always lose._

_Save your psychobabble when I’m alone._

Midgie giggled shrilly. _Don’t you see you’re always alone~_

“Well, as ye all know from the meeting, Ah’m a bit out of touch,” Alistair enunciated slowly and clearly, as if Sirius was a particularly slow-witted child, “so I really think it’s in Potter’s and my best interests that I look up some literature on the laws and statutes. Just so we dinnae get slaughtered in the courtroom.” He shrugged as if he were talking about preparing umbrellas for rainstorms rather than wrongful expulsion, stepping out the door backwards. “Like the old ones like to say, am fear nach gleidh na h-airm san t-sith, cha bhi iad aige 'n am a' chogaidh.” He said it so fast it sounded like a sneeze.

“Bless you,” Ron unthinkingly piped up from his desserts. Hermione elbowed him and hissed at her friend to be quiet. He curled back, looking offended. Harry furrowed his brows as if he were unsure of how to feel grateful or concerned about how nonchalant the Scottish wizard was acting despite his promises earlier that evening.

“Hold on now,” Lupin put down his fork, craning his neck to address Scotland face-to-face. “There’s no need for you to go that far, we’ve got a library right here. Isn’t that right, Sirius?” Remus said in a diplomatic tone, nudging his friend. “Why don’t you show Alistair where it is? I think I remember your father owning a fantastic collection of books on socio-legal topics, no?”

He gave his friend a meaningful look. Alistair had the feeling it was not meant for his benefit nor defense of his character, and more like a hint as to where he wanted Sirius' interrogation to go. 

That may be just his paranoia talking. It may be not.

Sirius grunted, looking stubborn.

“That’s a great idea, Remus!” Mr. Weasley declared. He grabbed a plate of Spotted Dick and shoved it into Sirius’s hands, eager for the two men to take their unsolicited animosity somewhere else. “Here, have some brain fuel. Don’t hesitate to ask me for help if you need it,” he called out to the door jamb which Alistair was now peeking out from.

Harry rose from his chair. “Hold on, should I go too-”

“No, you stay here.” Sirius said firmly, holding out a hand at Harry and gesturing for him to sit back down. “You need to get some rest, there’ll be plenty of time for you to do research later.” 

Harry looked quite unsure, but ultimately decided to stay out of it. It helped that Ron was tugging his arm down as well, exerting a firm force as discreetly as possible whereas Hermione made meaningful looks and shook her head slightly.

Muttering under his breath, Sirius stalked out of the room, past the impassive Scottish wizard and straight down the hall. Disregarding how Alistair towered over him by a couple of inches, he threw him a curt look. _Call him what you like_ , Alistair thought, _but this man is no coward_. 

“You coming?”

Alistair wanted to bare his teeth at the man and up the aggression between them to eleven, but the less human, more apathetic part of him preferred to roll his eyes at the mortal’s impudence. “Lead the way.”

Not long after, their footsteps disappeared up the stairs.

* * *

_Eventide, 11 o’clock_

_12 Grimmauld Place_

_Fifth floor corridor_

This part of the house was unusually dark, and that was saying something, considering that most of the places Alistair noticed on the way up here were sorely lacking in light sources of any sort. The complete lack of windows around this area was definitely a contributing factor; at least the other parts of the house had some weak moonlight to fall on the filthy floorboards. Thank goodness he could see in the dark.

His guide did not have such an advantage, however, and was relying on the small pinprick of light on the tip of his wand to not fall flat on his face. Their plate of Spotted Dick hovered by their heads like a flying saucer of cake infested with chicken pox, and Alistair stood a good ways behind Black so as to not get hit by it.

Something scuttled in the periphery of his vision.

“What was that?” His neck jerked in the direction of the scuttle. It sounded far too heavy to be a rat. Also, he didn't think rats had that sort of hideous pruned face and loose, rashy skin folds he glimpsed before whatever he saw disappeared behind darker shadows. On instinct, He backed up a step and kept his blind spots against the wall, feeling magic gather at his fingertips.

When Sirius realised the guest he was supposed to guide was no longer following, he rounded on Alistair with the light of his wand. The bluish glow it cast on his face illuminated his exasperation. “It's just a rat. Is being behind enemy lines making you nervous or something?" Sirius scoffed. "Let's get moving."

"It is _not_ a rat." Alistair insisted, going over to the darker parts of the corridor with his hand outstretched. It met a wall. He dragged his hand along the cold, smooth stone while walking forward into the darkness. His fingers jerked back when they met a crack in the wall, before returning to trace the entire length of it. "There's a hole broken into the wall here," he said, "its huge and hollow inside- Och. Ah. Hello, you're a very ugly pest, aren't you?"

Alistair stood up while Sirius shone his light at the dark mass now surrounding his companion's right arm. A large, wrinkly creature was hanging off Alistair's hand by its sharp, gappy teeth, growling softly. Its eyes widened in nervousness when it began to dawn on it that the man it was biting looked barely affected. It only got more nervous when Alistair brought it closer to his face for inspection while completely ignoring the blood from his wound dripping all over the creature's face.

"Is this your house-elf?" Alistair asked, shaking his hand a little in a half assed attempt to get the wrinkly creature off him. It just bounced up and down while hanging off the skin of his hand, trying to strangle his wrist with sticklike limbs that were the only thing keeping its loose, smelly toga from falling apart.

"Oh damn." Sirius cursed under his breath, and that was answer enough for Alistair. "Kreacher! Let go of him.” He grabbed a fistful of Kreacher's toga and pulled him back until he let go, unable to refuse a direct order from his master.

Alistair wiped the blood on his coat, peering closer at 'Kreacher'. It hissed at him and tried to bite his nose.

In the pale bluish light, the creature named Kreacher turned out to be…

...an elderly house-elf, sporting bloodshot eyes and a nose so bulbous it looked like it was stung by a bee. He was trying and failing to hide a glittering emerald locket, whose golden chain spilled out of his threadbare toga pockets.

“What in Merlin's name are you doing with that?” Sirius demanded, reaching for the jewelry and tugging it out of Kreacher’s bony grasp. “I thought I told you to stop messing with the rubbish we wanted to throw out.”

“Of course, Master!” the old house-elf screeched and pulled back on the necklace at complete odds with his words, with the pitch and acidity that suggested he wanted to say something very rude instead. “It is not rubbish," continued old Kreacher under his breath. "Nasty smelly blood traitor like Master would never understand how precious this item is-” 

Much to Alistair’s morbid fascination, the crotchety old thing was insulting his master right in his face in a harsh, perfectly audible volume. _Times sure have changed._

During the Founder's Era, Godric was of the opinion that hiring them to cook and clean for students would spoil them stupid, and even got into a huge argument with Helga about it because she was a stickler for cleanliness and none of her students were ever up to her standards of fastidiousness. But even he relented after a dysentery epidemic broke out in the school for the third time in three years. 

Scotland knew, being the unfortunate victim of each one. He's pretty sure the amount he'd shat was all four of his brothers' weight combined.

As someone who was instinctively repulsed by being bossed around, Alistair has never quite understood these once-wild creatures developing a zeal to serve and cater to the whims of others over the centuries, especially considering the lack of respect their owners gave them. 

“Kreacher must save them all, he’d kill himself before he lets the family disappointment ruin the Blacks any further…ohhh, Mistress Black, Master Regulus would never have done this, he was always the good son...”

“For Merlin’s sake, _shut up_ .” Sirius spat, tugging so hard he shook off the house-elf clinging on to the chain like a lifeline. Alistair was pretty sure Kreacher only let go for fear the necklace would snap from the force of their struggle. “Everything in this house you call treasure was built on the suffering of innocents, including _your_ kind." Sirius swung the necklace around with a disgusted look upon his face. "But you don't care, do you, as long as you get to play servant to dead bastards? Huh?!" 

Kreacher only stared hard at the locket, looking one twitch away from snatching it from his master's grasp. His obvious focus had Siris clicking his tongue in exasperation

"Where's the rest of the stuff you've hidden?" 

Kreacher hissed and covered his batlike ears. "Kreacher doesn't know, he doesn't know, don't ask him where he hid the family treasures." In a not so quiet voice, he added, "Like I'd tell you, shame of the family."

Sirius must not have wanted to waste anymore time with making Kreacher reveal his hidden stash, because he was already reaching within the large crack Alistair found and dug his hand around in there. It was deep enough to swallow his arm to the elbow, but Sirius found nothing else other than a pair of his late father's trousers.

"Oh yuck." Sirius tossed it aside. Kreacher quickly saved it from falling onto the filthy floorboards, holding it like the Virgin Mary held the crucified Jesus.

"Master is not fit to touch the belongings of his father! Kreacher wishes he died in Azkaban instead, died, died, _died!"_ The old house-elf whisper-screamed and cradled the trousers like his firstborn child. In his throes he accidentally went too close to Alistair and immediately bumped back, clutching the pants to his chest. 

His bloodshot eyes darted up to Alistair and he ducked his head immediately; however, as he did so he muttered: "And what is this Mudblood scum...he doesn't look right, Kreacher thinks he should not be here-"

  


"Do you think so, Kreacher?" Sirius said. His voice was eerily calm despite being wholeheartedly wished to die by his own house-elf. The twitch in his jaw betrayed his cool exterior. "That's too bad. Because he'll be helping me take out the trash."

And with that, he tossed the necklace at Alistair, who caught it without thinking. He turned it over in his calloused hands, staring at the serpentine ‘S’ embedded on the front in silver. The many facets cut into the emerald seemed to glitter in the dim lighting despite being barely exposed to Sirius’ light. It felt oddly warm and alive and…... _familiar_.

He snapped out of it when Kreacher screeched like his master had just scalded him with boiling water and lunged for the jewelry. His black gappy teeth and stubby nails were bared with the full intention of doing whatever savagery within his ability to remove the treasure from Alistair’s undeserving hands, which raised high to keep his new possession out of the aged house-elf’s reach. 

“You stop right there.” Sirius commanded. Kreacher froze, bloodshot eyes bulging from the utter effort of restraining himself from jumping Alistair, twitching where he stood. “That belongs to the ‘scum’ now. And the same thing is going to happen to everything I find you try to squirrel away from the trash bags again. Now get out of my sight.”

Kreacher bowed and trembled, but it didn’t smell nor look like fear to Alistair. However, he was a bit too distracted with his new, suspicious necklace to care. The two men began to move on ahead, until a harrowing cry rang out from the darkness behind them.

“YOU CAN’T!” 

The aged elf barreled forwards and threw himself on the ground before Alistair's feet. Fat, angry tears rolled down the folds of the house-elf's wrinkled cheeks and soaked into the trousers still in his arms. "You can't, you can't, you can't," he began to sob in the most hideous and pitiful manner. It was loud, wet and gasping, and one of his bony fists pounded the floor to punctuate each cry.

"Why not?" Sirius asked. Astonishingly there was no bite to his question, only a mild undercurrent that could almost be interpreted as curiosity. Kreacher only shook his head, violently. He whispered something under his breath, so quickly and so hushed Alistair could barely make it out and Sirius not at all.

They eventually left when Kreacher did not do any more to clarify his grief over losing the locket to a stranger he considered scum. Alistair did feel a little uncomfortable with the whole shebang; but as far as the both of them was concerned the elderly house-elf was more than a few peas short of a casserole and therefore prone to disproportionate reactions. 

His pureblood dogma inclinations did nothing to endear him to the Scottish wizard either, even though it was clear there was a harsh and difficult past between the Blacks and their last living heir that was being taken out on an ignorant but ultimately blameless servant. Besides, he needed to find out why the hell this ugly green trinket was giving him the heebie-jeebies.

It wasn't until a very long time later that Alistair would come to regret not telling Sirius about the last words he would ever hear Kreacher say.

_Forgive me, Master Regulus……! I failed my promise. Forgive me, forgive me, FORGIVE ME-_

* * *

_The Erudite and Most Ancient Library of Black_

“So,” Alistair began, staring at the grand title in embossed on a gold plaque above the tall but narrow doorway, just wide enough for a single man to pass through. “Does everything in your house go by this naming style, or is it just the big stuff?” 

Completely straight-faced, he brought his palms together and waved them in the shape of a rainbow in front of the lion-faced door ring. “The Creaky and Most Rusty Door Ring of Black.” 

To his surprise, Sirius snorted, jingling key after key in the keyhole without much regard of how he was scuffing up teeth and gears within. A few silverfish crawled out the hole, and the man unceremoniously stabbed them with the unsuccessful key before wiping the remains on an iron nail reinforcing the doors. He moved on to the next key, a ridiculously long brass stick with complex teeth. “If my mother had her way, I’m sure she would’ve considered it. Ah, dammit,” he cursed, flipping through the ring of keys, “which one is it again……” 

Finally hitting the jackpot with the second last key, Sirius carelessly shoved the door open. When the great doors did not yield he pushed his entire weight on it, creating a large plume of dust in the air when the rusty hinges finally gave in. It led Scotland to conclude Sirius Black was not so familiar with his ancestral home- likely due to the Black family drama. 

  


A cloud of dust flew up when the men made their way inside the room. Torches lining the walls lit up on their own, one after the other lining the walls until the whole library was illuminated. Alsitair couldn't help a sharp inhale upon seeing the library in its entire glory. His green eyes were greeted with faded tapestries that covered the long, reaching walls of once polished wood, depicting a family of wizards that must be the Blacks riding iron-plated wyrms while throwing fire at wailing muggles and others showing them magnificently robed on balconies of needle-sharp towers, magically ripping transparent, thousand-limbed leviathan gods from their constellations. 

Their once bright paint was mostly faded with age, but Scotland heard faint screams and cackling every now and then from the fabric as he passed by. They echoed in the massive hall to supplement the silence of any other presence of life other than the two men's breathing.

Alistair soaked in the rows and rows of bookshelves that lined every wall almost all the way up to the ceiling, and the tallest shelves could only be reached by sky ladders of thin black metal. There his gaze was further drawn to the ceiling- charmed to show a moving night map of every constellation the vicinity had to offer, imitating the cosmos and the celestial bodies roving within. If he had to describe the sight, the sky above looked to be slightly moving and very three dimensional.

_You know_ , Alistair thought, _as far as libraries go, this one isn’t half bad._ _England has a nicer collection though._ He could never claim to be a bibliophile, but he can recognise an impressive collection when he saw it.

A comet shot by just that moment, and Scotland caught a flash below- belatedly realising the floor was a liquid-smooth mirror, reflecting the entire night sky back up under his feet. He stepped back a little in shock and wonder, but there was no way to escape trodding on the reflected skies... he kept backing up blindly, absent-mindedly recognizing each star cluster, planets and their moons, nebulas and sparks of faraway galaxies until he hit something soft and fell into it.

As he sprawled face up from the marshmallow soft couches he sunk halfway into, Aquila the Eagle's constellation twinkled at him from above. Aquila, the eagle who abducted the stunning Ganymede to Olympus at Zeus' whim. 

He hoped it wasn't an omen.

"So, Kirkland," Sirius turned to the Scottish wizard, standing off to three-stories-high window and summoning book after book to pile higgly-piggly onto the plush loveseat next to Alistair, "you'll be a witness at Harry's hearing." It wasn't a question so much as a statement. "You never did tell us your account of what happened that night."

This distracted Alistair from the stunning sights he found himself enclosed in. He righted himself in his seat. "Did I not?"

"Alright, let's put it this way." Sirius face was one of skepticism, studying the Scottish wizard out of the corner of his eye as if Alistair were a novel Staph species on a petri dish. "How the bloody hell are you going to explain to the Wizengamot that you used a Dark spell?"

Alistair tilted his head to the side, but he’d been expecting a question like this. Expecting but didn't really prepare for. “It’s not a Dark spell.” 

"Cut the bull, Kirkland."

“I can’t do anything if you don’t believe me, can I?”

“I’m not going to stand by and do nothing while you ruin Harry’s chances of staying in Hogwarts."

The sound of books piling up stopped with a final, heavy _thump._

"You know who I am, don’t you?” Sirius gestured to himself in a kind of cocky, yet self-deprecating manner. “I’m pretty sure even the ones hiding up in the mountains knows the serial killer Black. Friend traitor. Murderer. The only living Azkaban escapee to ever exist.”

"That last bit doesn’t sound true, but I don’t know enough about you city dwellers to disagree." Alistair remarked, popping open a tome from the pile next to him. He flicked a few bookworms off the chosen page, which was discussing how witch hunts influenced what is now London Underground’s justice system.

Sirius crushed them under his foot. His gaze looked faraway, staring at but not seeing the sights outside the ridiculously tall and narrow window. Those dark eyes slid down the windowpanes to watch Alistair's dusty reflection in the glass.

“Back in that slimy spit of rock, listening to all the murderers and Dark wizards going mad all around me, do you really think they wouldn’t have thrown everything they had at the Dementors if they could? Those scums were _powerful_ . They knew their trade well, they relished in their expertise, but in the most desperate of times all that knowledge did squat. I watched them die, and mark my words, they would have used all they had to save themselves but Merlin knows it wasn’t enough, no matter what Dark crafts they dabbled in _._ ” 

All fatigue infecting Sirius’ entire being transformed into something hungry, repulsed, curious despite every iota of hostility he consciously exhibited. “ _What did you do_ , Kirkland _?"_ He hissed, turning around to face the Scottish wizard. "What the bloody hell did you do for such power?”

Alistair clicked his tongue, looking at his book instead of Sirius like the man was a stubborn grandchild bothering his grandfather during his reading time. “What kind of answer are you expecting? Even if I were a Death Eater, I’m hardly going to break down in confessions at this point, am I? Hell, I could even kick your arse right now and get away with it.” 

Sirius let out a bark of mirthless laughter. “Don’t get too full of yourself, stranger.” He bared his teeth. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

He grabbed a fistful of Alistair’s collar, pulling the taller man as much as he could off the chair backrest and getting up into his face. Alistair let him, but made no effort to resist or follow the motion, only hung his full weight off Sirius’s grip on his shirt and matched his blazing gaze with a stone cold one. It was with petty satisfaction he observed the other man’s arm straining from his weight. “Just keep in mind that I’m watching you. If a single hair on Harry’s head gets harmed…”

“If a single hair on Harry’s head gets harmed……?” Alistair parroted obligingly and raised a brow, contrasting with the current tension to create a mocking effect. 

"I'll kill you." There wasn't even a waver of hesitation in his voice. "This boy is all I have and I'll burn you in hell with myself before I let you hurt him in any way. _Got it?"_

Was his eyes blazing far too bright? Did his voice almost choke? Alistair knew a father's (- no, a brother's?) love when he saw it and even he would respect such a strong, horribly sincere thing. Even if it was ruining his shirt. And fueling the strong temptation to sock the smaller man off him into a shelf and start a fistfight right here and now.

_Ah, fuck it._

Alistair shoved a calloused palm into Sirius' chest and essentially threw him into a ratty armchair opposite him. The entire armchair jerked backwards and almost fell over from the force of the push, which was much stronger than the effort the Scottish wizard put into it would suggest. Sirius stumbled, steadied himself by grabbing both sides of his couch, and glared at Alistair from his impromptu seat. However, neither pushed the matter further. 

"Keep yer knickers oan, papa bear," Scotland groused. "Potter won't see any harm from me."

_Not on purpose anyway._

* * *

_The Next Morning_

_Brunchtime_

_Edgecombe Residence_

"Aw _hell_ no." 

Marietta brandished a long chicken-feather duster at the little green rabbit sipping milk from one paw and holding a half-chewed lettuce leaf on the other. She moved forward and back in short, jerky steps while waving the duster about, trying to scare the winged rabbit away but clearly nervous about getting too close.

"Shoo, go on, shoo! Get out of here!"

Said green rabbit was totally unfazed at the young redhead losing her cool at the very sight of her eating breakfast at the kitchen table. She simply dipped her lettuce into the milk and daintily nibbled it.

"Cho!" Marietta gave up and yelled for her friend. "I can't believe you invited a fae into my house!"

"I'm sorry!" Cho piped up from outside the kitchen. She walked in bearing a carrot from the vegetable garden. She placed it on a plate before Minty, and a wave of her wand had the carrot peeled and diced in neat little cubes. "Oooh, that looks delicious. Thank you, sweetie." The little rabbit took a cube and popped it into her mouth.

"Mmm, crunchy."

"You're welcome." Cho smiled, then turned to her friend, her expression turning apologetic but not regretful at all.

"I couldn't have just left her outside _._ It's _cold."_ Cho wheedled. "And I know you love rabbits; come on, put that away." In contrast to her gentle words, the shorter girl's hand shot forward and nabbed the feather duster. 

If it were not for Marietta's naturally tense grip on anything in her clutches, she would have lost it to Cho, but as it so happens the attempt to remove the duster out of the equation ended up as a short struggle between the two girls. A struggle Cho won when she poked her friend in the ribs, earning a yelp and a swinging fist she dodged just in time.

"It's summer, you dummy." Marietta said, rubbing her left rib with a scowl on her face. "Fae trick people out of family, riches and food. Look at this one," Marietta pointed accusingly at Minty, whose large watery eyes blinked ever so innocently," this one's probably going to be the sort that eats us out of house and home, then grow really large and then eat _us,_ like your poor Old Uncle Foo. For the love of- haven't you learned anything from last time?" 

Cho rolled her eyes. "You really have to stop bringing up Old Uncle Foo. And anyways, he got bitten because he didn't feed the toyol often enough. A mistake I shall not repeat." The short girl smugly puffed out her chest. "I rubbed shoulders with fae all the time back in Scotland. They're really nice most of the time though. Come on, let her stay, it'll only be until we return to Hogwarts."

Marietta grumbled.

"Won't you give her a chance? Minty's really sweet and she won't make trouble for your parents. Right, Minty?" Cho turned to the munching rabbit, who beamed at her in reply. Minty had finished her cup of milk and for some reason was rolling around dregs of mint leaves at the bottom. She looked utterly absorbed with her activity.

Marietta wasn't impressed, but she recognised when Cho was being stubborn.

One would think it would be the fiery Marietta to be the stubborn one in their friend group, but if they honestly gave it more consideration, obviously Cho was the most determined one out of all of them. Yes, she was genuinely kind and sweet, but she was also very strong willed. 

It was the main reason how a short, petite Asian girl with a gentle soul made it into the surprisingly male-dominated Ravenclaw Quidditch team and firmly held her place as the leader of their little group.

_Though she's been more of a pushover lately. Since… Cedric…_ Marietta frowned, a wave of compassion for her good friend (now best friend, now everyone else had left) overwhelming her distrust of fae. 

On the outside, she sniffed and turned away, crossing her arms and looking quite imperious indeed. "Eh, whatever. The rabbit-" Cho cleared her throat. " _Minty_ can stay here for now. But she goes the second we find this Professor Kirkland. You got that, rabbit?"

She turned back round, but jerked backwards when she found Minty right in her face. Unfortunately, the winged rabbit grabbed her cheeks and followed her motion of stepping backwards. The tiny green paws pinched her cheeks a little, but otherwise did not hurt.

Cho suddenly looked quite worried and stepped forward, but Marietta held out a hand to stop her.

Much to the redhead's surprise, instead of attacking her or scolding her, the fae gently touched their foreheads and closed her eyes.

"Your heart is fiercely protective and loyal, and I so admire you for it," she whispered to Marietta's reddish-gold monobrow. "But there will come a time when you have to pick a side, and I hope you make a choice you will not regret."

And with that Minty floated away. Marietta's eyes were wide in disbelief, not reacting when Cho went over to her and comfortingly patted her back.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos if you liked it, k? A proper Professor Kirkland will be coming soon!


End file.
